ilifornia 

ional 

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MELODY. 


"Minded  of  nought  but  peace,  an^  of  a  child." 

SIDNEY  LANIER 


CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LQ§  ANGELES 


Books  by  Laura  E.  Richards. 


"  Mrs.  Richards  has  made  for  herself  a  little  niche  apart  in  the 
literary  world,  from  her  delicate  treatment  of  New  England  village 
life."  —  Boston  Post. 


THE  CAPTAIN  JANUARY  SERIES 

CAPTAIN  JANUARY.     IGmo,  cloth,  50  cents. 

A  charming  idyl  of  New  England  coast  life,  whose  success  has 
been  very  remarkable.  One  reads  it,  is  thoroughly  charmed  by  it, 
tells  others,  and  so  its  fame  has  been  heralded  by  its  readers,  until 
to-day  it  is  selling  by  the  thousands,  constantly  enlarging  the  circle 
of  its  delighted  admirers. 
SAHE.  Illustrated  Holiday  Edition.  "With  thirty  half-tone  pictures 

from  drawings  by  Erank  T.  Merrill.    4to,  cloth,  $1.25. 
MELODY.    The  Story  of  a  Child.    IGmo,  50  cents. 

"  Had  there  never  been  a  '  Captain  January,'  '  Melody '  would  easily 
take  first  place."  —  Boston  Times. 
SAME.    Illustrated  Holiday  Edition.   With  thirty  half-tone  pictures 

from  drawings  by  Frank  T.  Merrill.    4to,  cloth,  $1.25. 
MARIE.    IGmo,  50  cents. 

"  Seldom  has  Mrs.  Richards  drawn  a  more  irresistible  picture,  or 
framed  one  with  more  artistic  literary  adjustment."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  A  perfect  literary  gem."  —  Boston  Transcript. 
Jin  OF  HELLAS;  or,  IN  DURANCE  VILE,  and  a  companion  story, 

BETHESDA   POOL.     IGmo,  50  cents. 
SOflE    SAY,   and   a   companion   story,  NEIGHBOURS   IN  CYRUS. 

16mo,  50  cents. 

ROSIN  THE  BEAU.    16mo,  50  cents.    A  sequel  to  "  Melody." 
SNOW-WHITE  ;  or  THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  WOOD.    IGmo,  50  cents. 


ISLA  HERON.    A  charming  prose  idyl  of  quaint  New  England  life. 

Small  quarto,  cloth,  75  cents. 
NAUTILUS.     A  very  interesting  story,  with  illustrations;  uniquely 

bound,  small  quarto,  cloth,  75  cents. 
FIVE  MINUTE  STORIES.      A  charming  collection  of  short  stories 

and  clever  poems  for  children.    Small  quarto,  cloth,  $1.25. 
THREE  MARGARETS.     One  of  the  most  clever  stories  for  girls  that 

the  author  has  written.  IGmo,  cloth,  handsome  cover  design,  $1.25. 

MARGARET  MONTFOR T.     The  second  volume  in  the  series  of  which 

'  "  Three  Margarets  "  was  so  successful  as  the  initial  volume.  IGmo, 

cloth,  handsome  cover  design,  $1.25. 
PEGGY.    The  third  volume  in  the  series  of  which  the  preceding  ones 

have  been  so  successful.  IGmo,  cloth,  handsome  cover  design,  $1.25. 
RITA.    The  fourth  volume  in  the  series,  being  an  account  of  Rita, 

the  Cuban  Margaret,  and  her  friends.  IGmo,  cloth,  handsome  cover 

design,  f  1.25. 
LOVE  AND  ROCKS.    A  charming  story  of  one  of  the  pleasant  islands 

that  dot  the  rugged  Maine  coast.    With  etching  frontispiece  by 

Mercier.    Tall  IGmo,  unique  cover  design  on  linen,  gilt  top,  $1.00. 
FOR  TOMMY  and  Other  Stories.      Frontispiece  by  F.  T.  Merrill. 
Tall  IGmo,  cloth,  gilt  tops,  $1.00. 


Dana  Estes  &  Company,  Publishers,  Boston. 


MELODY 


BY 


LAURA   E.   RICHARDS 

AUTHOR   OF    "  CAPTAIN   JANUAKY,"    ETC. 


SEVENTY -SIXTH   THOUSAND 


BOSTON 

DANA   ESTES   <fe  COMPANY 
1901 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ESTES  &  LAUKIAT, 


All  rights  reserved. 


0.  H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Printers 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

THE   LOVELY    MEMORY 

OF 

fttg  Sister, 
(ULIA    KOMANA    ANAGNOS. 


CONTENTS. 


2HAPTEK  pAOC 

I.  THE  CHILD 1 

II.  THE  DOCTOR 7 

III.  ON  THE  ROAD    ...         .-,.-.  18 

IV.  ROSIN  THE  BEAU   .     t 24 

V.  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 44 

VI.  THE  SERPENT 52 

VII.  LOST 60 

VIII.  WAITING 66 

IX.  BLONDEL  . 71 

X.  DARKNESS 76 

XI.  LIGHT   ....  85 


MELODY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

,       THE   CHILD. 

«  \X  7ELL,  there!"  said  Miss  Vesta.  "The  child  has  a 
*  *  wonderful  gift,  that  is  certain.  Just  listen  to  her, 
Rejoice  !  You  never  heard  our  canary  siug  like  that!" 

Miss  Vesta  put  back  the  shutters  as  she  spoke,  and  let  a 
flood  of  light  into  the  room  where  Miss  Rejoice  lay.  The 
window  was  open,  and  Melody's  voice  came  in  like  a  wave 
of  sound,  filling  the  room  with  sweetness  and  life  and  joy. 

"  It 's  like  the  foreign  birds  they  tell  about !  "  said  Miss 
Rejoice,  folding  her  thin  hands,  and  settling  herself  on  the 
pillow  with  au  air  of  perfect  content,  — "  nightingales,  and 
skylarks,  and  all  the  birds  in  the  poetry -books.  What  is 
she  doing,  Vesta  ?  " 

Miss  Rejoice  could  see  part  of  the  yard  from  her  bed. 
She  could  see  the  white  lilac-bush,  now  a  mass  of  snowy 
plumes,  waving  in  the  June  breeze ;  she  could  see  the  road, 
and  knew  when  any  of  the  neighbors  went  to  town  or  to 
meeting ;  but  the  corner  from  which  the  wonderful  voice 
came  thrilling  and  soaring  was  hidden  from  her. 

Miss  Vesta  peered  out  between  the  muslin  curtains. 
"  She 's  sitting  on  the  steps,"  she  said,  "  feeding  the  hens.  It 
is  wonderful,  the  way  the  creatures  know  her  1  That  old 

i 


I  MELODY. 

top-knot  hen,  that  never  has  a  good  word  for  anybody,  is 
sitting  in  her  lap  almost.  She  says  she  understands  their 
talk,  and  I  really  believe  she  does.  'T  is  certain  none  of 
them  cluck,  not  a  sound,  while  she's  singing.  'T  is  a 
manner  of  marvel,  to  my  mind." 

"It  is  so,"  assented  Miss  Rejoice,  mildly.  "There, 
sister !  you  said  you  had  never  heard  her  sing  '  Tara's  Harp.' 
Do  listen  now  !  " 

Both  sisters  were  silent  in  delight.  Miss  Vesta  stood  at 
the  window,  leaning  against  the  frame.  She  was  tall,  and 
straight  as  an  arrow,  though  she  was  fifty  years  old.  Her 
snow-white  hair  was  brushed  straight  up  from  her  broad 
forehead ;  her  blue  eyes  were  keen  and  bright  as  a  sword. 
She  wore  a  black  dress  and  a  white  apron ;  her  hands 
showed  the  marks  of  years  of  serving,  and  of  hard  work  of 
all  kinds.  No  one  would  have  thought  that  she  and  Miss 
Kejoice  were  sisters,  unless  he  had  surprised  one  of  the 
loving  looks  that  sometimes  passed  between  them  when 
they  were  alone  together.  The  face  that  lay  on  the  pillow 
was  white  and  withered,  like  a  crumpled  white  rose.  The 
dark  eyes  had  a  pleading,  wistful  look,  and  were  wonder- 
fully soft  withal.  Miss  Rejoice  had  white  hair  too,  but 
it  had  a  warm  yellowish  tinge,  very  different  from  the  clear 
white  of  Miss  Vesta's.  It  curled,  too,  in  little  ringlets  round 
her  beautiful  old  face.  In  short,  Miss  Vesta  was  splendidly 
handsome,  while  no  one  would  think  of  calling  Miss  Re- 
joice anything  but  lovely.  The  younger  sister  lay  always 
in  bed.  It  was  some  thirty  years  since  she  met  with  the 
accident  which  changed  her  from  a  rosy,  laughing  gi.rl  irto 
a  helpless  cripple.  A  party  of  pleasure,  —  gay  lads  and 
lasses  riding  together,  careless  of  anything  save  the  delight 
of  the  moment  j  a  sudden  leao  of  the  horae,  frightened  at 


THE  CHILD  d 

some  obstacle  ;  a  fall,  striking  on  a  sharp  stone,  —  this  was 
Miss  Rejoice's  little  story.  People  in  the  village  had  for- 
gotten that  there  was  any  story ;  even  her  own  contempo- 
raries almost  forgot  that  Rejoice  had  ever  been  other  than 
she  was  now.  But  Miss  Vesta  never  forgot.  She  left  her 
position  in  the  neighboring  town,  broke  off  her  engagement 
to  the  man  she  loved,  and  came  home  to  her  sister ;  and 
they  had  never  been  separated  for  a  day  since.  Once,  when 
the  bitter  pain  began  to  abate,  and  the  sufferer  could  realize 
that  she  was  still  a  living  creature  and  not  a  condemned 
spirit,  suffering^for  the  sins  of  some  one  else  (she  had 
thought  of  all  her  o\vn,  and  could  not  feel  that  they  were 
bad  enough  to  merit  such  suffering,  if  God  was  the  person 
she  supposed),  —  in  those  first  days  Miss  Rejoice  ventured 
to  question  her  sister  about  her  engagement.  She  was 
afraid  —  she  did  hope  the  breaking  of  it  had  nothing  to 
do  with  her.  "  It  has  to  do  with  myself  1 "  said  Miss 
Vesta,  briefly,  and  nothing  more  was  said.  The  sisters 
had  lived  their  life  together,  without  a  thought  save  for 
each  other,  till  Melody  came  into  their  world. 

But  here  is  Melody  at  the  door ;  she  shall  introduce  her- 
self. A  girl  of  twelve  years  old,  with  a  face  like  a  flower. 
A.  broad  white  forehead,  with  dark  hair  curling  round  it  in 
rings  and  tendrils  as  delicate  as  those  of  a  vine ;  a  sweet, 
steadfast  mouth,  large  blue  eyes,  clear  and  calm  under  the 
long  dark  lashes,  but  with  a  something  in  them  which 
makes  the  stranger  turn  to  look  at  them  again.  He  may 
look  several  times  before  he  discovers  the  reason  of  their 
fixed,  unchanging  calm.  The  lovely  mouth  smiles,  the 
exquisite  face  lights  up  with  gladness  or  softens  into  sym- 
pathy or  pity ;  but  the  blue  eyes  do  not  flash  or  soften,  for 
Melody  is  blind. 


4  MELODY. 

She  came  into  the  room,  walking  lightly,  witn  a  firm,  as- 
sured  tread,  which  gave  no  hint  of  hesitation  or  uncer- 
tainty. 

"  See,  Aunt  Joy,"  she  said  brightly,  "  here  is  the  fir?t 
rose.  You  were  saying  yesterday  that  it  was  time  for  cin- 
namon-roses; now  here  is  one  for  you."  She  stooped  to 
kiss  the  sweet  white  face,  and  laid  the  glowing  blossom 
oeside  it. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Miss  Rejoice;  "I  might  have 
known  you  would  find  the  first  blossom,  wherever  it  was. 
Where  was  this,  now  ?  On  the  old  bush  behind  the 
oarn  ?  " 

"  Not  in  our  yard  at  all,"  replied  the  child,  laughing. 
"  The  smell  came  to  me  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  I  went 
hunting  for  it.  It  was  in  Mrs.  Penny's  yard,  right  down 
by  the  fence,  close,  so  you  could  hardly  see  it." 

"  Well,  I  never  I  "  exclaimed  Miss  Vesta.  "  And  she  let 
you  have  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  child.  "  I  told  her  it  was  for  Aunt 
Joy." 

"  H'm  ! "  said  Miss  Vesta.  "  Martha  Penny  does  n't 
suffer  much  from  giving,  as  a  rule,  to  Aunt  Joy  or  anybody 
else.  Did  she  give  it  to  you  at  the  first  asking,  hey  ?  " 

"  Now,  Vesta !  "  remonstrated  Miss  Rejoice,  gently. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know,"  persisted  the  elder  sister. 

Melody  laughed  softly.  "Not  quite  the  first  asking," 
she  said.  "  She  wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  she  had  no 
nose  of  her  own.  '  I  did  n't  mean  that/  said  I  j  *  but  I 
thought  perhaps  you  would  n't  care  for  it  quite  as  much  as 
Aunt  Joy  would.'  And  when  she  asked  why,  I  said,  '  You 
don't  sound  as  if  you  would/  Was  that  rude,  Aunt 
Vesta  ?  " 


THE  CHILD.  5 

"Humph!"  said  Miss  Vesta,  smiling  grimly.  "I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  exactly  polite,  but  Martha  Penny 
would  n't  know  the  difference." 

The  child  looked  distressed,  and  so  did  Miss  Rejoice. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Melody.  "  But  then  Mrs.  Penny 
said  something  so  funny.  '  Well,  gaffle  onto  it  1  I  s'pose 
you  're  one  of  them  kind  as  must  always  have  what  they 
want  in  this  world.  Gaffle  onto  your  rose,  and  go  'long ! 
Guess  I  might  be  sick  enough  before  anybody  'ud  get  roses 
for  me !'  So  I  told  her  I  would  bring  her  a  whole  bunch  of 
our  white  ones  as  soon  as  they  were  out,  and  told  her  how  I 
always  tried  to  get  the  first  cinnamon-rose  for  Aunt  Joy. 
She  said,  '  She  ain't  your  aunt,  nor  mine  either.'  But  she 
spoke  kinder,  and  didn't  seem  cross  any  more;  so  I  took 
the  rose,  and  here  it  is." 

Miss  Vesta  was  angry.  A  bright  spot  burned  in  her 
cheeks,  and  she  was  about  to  speak  hastily;  but  Miss 
Rejoice  raised  a  gentle  hand,  and  motioned  her  to  be 
silent. 

"  Martha  Penny  has  a  sharp  way,  Melody,"  said  Miss 
Rejoice;  "but  she  meant  no  unkindness,  I  think.  The 
rose  is  very  sweet,"  she  added  ;  "  there  are  no  other  roses  so 
sweet,  to  my  mind.  And  how  are  the  hens  this  morning, 
dearie?" 

The  child  clapped  her  hands,  and  laughed  aloud.  "  Oh, 
we  have  had  such  fun  !  "  she  cried.  "  Top-knot  was  very 
cross  at  first,  and  would  not  let  the  young  speckled  hen  eat 
out  of  the  dish  with  her.  So  I  took  one  under  each  arm, 
and  sang  and  talked  to  them  till  they  were  both  in  a  good 
humor.  That  made  the  Plymouth  rooster  jealous,  and  he 
came  and  drove  them  both  away,  and  had  to  have  a  petting 
all  by  himself.  He  is  such  a  dear  1 " 


fi  MELODY 

"  You  do  spoil  those  hens,  Melody,"  said  Miss 
with  an  affectionate  grumble.  "  Do  you  suppose  they  'll 
eat  any  better  for  being  talked  to  and  sung  to  as  if  they 
were  persons  ?  " 

"  Poor  dears ! "  said  the  child  ; 4<  they  ought  to  be  happy 
while  they  do  live,  ought  n't  they,  Auntie  ?  Is  it  time  to 
make  the  cake  now,  Aunt  Vesta,  or  shall  I  get  my  knitting, 
and  sing  to  Auntie  Joy  a  little  ?  " 

At  that  moment  a  clear  whistle  was  heard  outside  the 
house  "  The  doctor !  "  cried  Melody,  her  sightless  face 
lighting  up  with  a  flash  of  joy.  "  I  must  go/'  and  she  ran 
quickly  out  to  the  gate. 

"  Now  he  '11  carry  her  off,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  "  and  we 
sha'n't  see  her  again  till  dinner-time.  You  'd  think  she 
was  his  child,  not  ours.  But  so  it  is,  in  this  world. " 

"What  has  crossed  you  this  morning,  Sister?"  asked 
Miss  Kejoice,  mildly.  "  You  seem  put  about." 

"  Oh,  the  cat  got  into  the  tea-kettle,"  replied  the  elder 
sister.  "Don't  fret  your  blessed  self  if  I  am  cross.  I  can't 
stand  Martha  Penny,  that 's  all,  —  speaking  so  to  that 
blessed  child !  I  wish  I  had  her  here  j  she  'd  soon  find  out 
whether  she  had  a  nose  or  not.  Dear  knows  it's  long 
enough  !  It  is  n't  the  first  time  I  've  had  four  parts  of  a 
mind  to  pull  it  for  her." 

"  Why,  Vesta  Dale,  how  you  do  talk ! n  said  Miss 
Rejoice,  and  then  they  both  laughed,  and  Miss  Vesta  went 
out  to  scold  the  doctor 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   DOCTOR. 

'"PHE  doctor  sat  in  his  buggy,  leaning  forward,  and  talk 
ing  to  the  child.  A  florid,  jovial-looking  man,  bright 
eyed  and  deep-chested,  with  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  and  a 
general  air  of  being  the  West  Wind  in  person.  He  was  not 
alone  this  time  :  another  doctor  sat  beside  him ;  and  Miss 
Vesta  smoothed  her  ruffled  front  at  sight  of  the  stranger 

"  Good-morning,  Vesta,"  shouted  the  doctor,  cheerily 
"  You  came  out  to  shoot  me,  because  you  thought  I  was 
coining  to  carry  off  Melody,  eh  ?  You  need  n't  say  no,  for 
I  know  your  musket-shot  expression.  Dr.  Anthony,  let  roe 
present  you  to  Miss  Vesta  Dale,  —  a  woman  who  has  never 
had  the  grace  to  have  a  day's  sickness  since  I  have  known 
her,  and  that 's  forty  years  at  least/* 

"  Miss  Dale  Is  a  fortunate  woman,"  said  Dr.  Anthony. 
smiling  "  Have  you  many  such  constitutions  in  your 
practice,  Brown  ?  " 

"  I  am  fool  enough  to  wish  T  had,"  growled  Dr  Brown 
"  That  woman,  sir,  is  enough  to  rum  any  practice,  with  her 
pernicious  example  of  disgusting  health.  How  is  Rejoice 
this  morning,  Vesta  ?  Does  she  want  to  see  me  ?  " 

Miss  Vesta  thought  not,  to-day ;  then  followed  questions 
and  answers,  searching  on  one  side,  careful  and  exact  on  tiw 
other;  and  theu  — 


8  MELODY. 

"  I  should  like  it  if  you  could  spare  Melody  for  half  an 
hour  this  morning,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  want  her  to  go 
down  to  Phoebe  Jackson's  to  see  little  Ned." 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  with  Ned  ?  "  cried  Melody,  with 
a  quick  look  of  alarm. 

"  Tomfoolery  is  the  principal  matter  with  him,  my  dear," 
said  Dr.  Brown,  grimly.  "His  eyes  have  been  troubling 
him,  you  know,  ever  since  he  had  the  measles  in  the 
winter.  I  Jve  kept  one  eye  on  the  child,  knowing  that  his 
mother  was  a  perfect  idiot,  or  rather  an  imperfect  one, 
which  is  worse.  Yesterday  she  sent  for  me  in  hot  haste : 
Ned  was  going  blind,  and  would  I  please  come  that  minute, 
and  save  the  precious  child,  and  oh,  dear  me,  what  should 
she  do,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  went  down  mad  enough, 
I  can  tell  you ;  found  the  child's  eyes  looking  like  a 
ploughed  field.  '"What  have  you  been  doing  to  this  child, 
Phoebe  ?  '  *  We-ell,  Doctor,  his  eyes  has  been  kind  o'  bad 
along  back,  the  last  week.  I  did  cal'late  to  send  for  you 
before ;  but  one  o*  the  neighbors  was  in,  and  she  said  to 
put  molasses  and  tobacco-juice  in  them.'  'Thunder  and 
turf ! '  says  I.  *  What  sa-ay  ?  '  says  Phoebe.  '  'N'  then  old 
Mis'  Barker  come  in  last  night.  You  know  she 's  had  con- 
sid'able  experi'nce  with  eyes,  her  own  having  been  weakly, 
and  all  her  children's  after  her.  And  she  said  to  try 
vitriol ;  but  I  kind  o'  thought  I  'd  ask  you  first,  Doctor,  so  I 
waited  till  morning.  And  now  his  eyes  look  terrible,  and 
he  seems  dretful  'pindlin' ;  oh,  dear  me,  what  shall  I  do  if 
my  poor  little  Neddy  goes  blind  ? '  '  Do,  Madam  ?  '  I  said. 
'  You  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  and 
your  tobacco-juice  and  molasses  have  made  him  blind. 
That's  what  you  will  do,  and  much  good  may  it  do 
you.'" 


THE  DOCTOR.  6 

•*  Oh,  Doctor,"  cried  Melody,  shrinking  as  if  the  words 
had  been  addressed  to  her,  "how  could  you  say  that? 
Hut  you  don't  think — you  don't  think  Ned  will  really  be 
blind  r*J  The  child  had  grown  very  pale,  and  she  leaned 
over  the  gate  with  clasped  hands,  in  painful  suspense. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  1  think  he  will 
come  out  all  right ;  no  thanks  to  his  mother  if  he  does. 
But  it  was  necessary  to  frighten  the  woman,  Melody,  for 
fright  is  the  only  thing  that  makes  an  impression  on  a  fool/ 
'  Now,  I  want  you  to  run  down  there,  like  a  good  child  ;  that 
is,  if  your  aunts  can  spare  you.  Run  down  and  comfort 
the  little  fellow,  who  has  been  badly  scared  by  the  clack 
of  tongues  and  the  smarting  of  the  tobacco-juice.  Im- 
beciles!  cods'  heads!  scooped-out  pumpkins!"  exclaimed 
the  doctor,  in  a  sudden  frenzy.  "A  —  I  don't  mean  that. 
Comfort  him  up,  child,  and  sing  to  him  and  tell  him  about 
Jack-and-the-Beanstalk.  You  '11  soon  bring  him  round,  1  '11 
warrant.  But  stop,"  he  added,  as  the  child,  after  touching 
Miss  Vesta's  hand  lightly,  and  making  and  receiving  I  know 
not  what  silent  communication,  turned  toward  the  house,  — 
"  stop  a  moment,  Melody.  My  friend  Dr.  Anthony  here  is 
very  fond  of  music,  and  he  would  like  to  hear  you  sing  just 
one  song.  Are  you  in  singing  trim  this  morning  ?  " 

The  child  laughed.  "  I  can  always  sing,  of  course,"  she 
said  simply.  "  What  song  would  you  like,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  best,"  said  Dr.  Brown.  "  Give  us  '  Annie 
Laurie.' " 

The  child  sat  down  on  a  great  stone  that  stood  beside  the 
gate.  It  was  just  under  the  white  lilac-bush,  and  the 
white  clusters  bent  lovingly  down  over  her,  and  seemed  to 
murmur  with  pleasure  as  the  wind  swept  them  lightly  to 
and  fro.  Miss  Vesta  said  something  about  her  bread,  and 


10  MELODY. 

gave  an  uneasy  glance  toward  the  house,  but  she  did  not  go 
in  ;  the  window  was  open,  and  Kejoice  could  hear  ;  and  after 
all,  bread  was  not  worth  so  much  as  "Annie  Laurie." 
Melody  folded  her  hands  lightly  on  her  lap,  and  sang. 

Dr.  Brown  thought  "  Annie  Laurie  "  the  most  beautiful 
song  in  the  world ;  certainly  it  is  one  of  the  best  beloved. 
Ever  since  it  was  first  written  and  sung  (who  knows  just 
when  that  was  ?  "Anonymous  "  is  the  legend  that  stands 
in  the  song-books  beside  this  familiar  title.  We  do  not 
know  the  man's  name,  cannot  visit  the  place  where  he 
wrote  and  sang,  and  made  music  for  all  coming  generations 
of  English-speaking  people  ;  can  only  think  of  him  as  a 
kind  friend,  a  man  of  heart  and  genius  as  surely  as  if  his 
name  stood  at  the  head  of  unnumbered  symphonies  and 
fugues),  —  ever  since  it  was  first  sung,  I  say,  men  and 
women  and  children  have  loved  this  song.  We  hear  of  its 
being  sung  by  camp-fires,  on  ships  at  sea,  at  gay  parties  of 
pleasure.  Was  it  not  at  the  siege  of  Lucknow  that  it 
floated  lik^J  breath  from  home  through  the  city  hell-beset, 
and  brought  cheer  and  hope  and  comfort  to  all  who  heard 
it  ?  The  cotter's  wife  croons  it  over  her  sleeping  baby ; 
the  lover  sings  it  to  his  sweetheart ;  the  child  runs,  carolling 
it,  through  the  summer  fields ;  finally,  some  world-honored 
'  prima-donna,  some  Patti  or  Nilsson,  sings  it  as  the  final 
touch  of  perfection  to  a  great  feast  of  music,  and  hearts 
swell  and  eyes  overflow  to  find  that  the  nursery  song  of  our 
childhood  is  a  world-song,  immortal  in  freshness  and 
beauty.  But  I  am  apt  to  think  that  no  lover,  no  tender 
mother,  no  splendid  Italian  or  noble  Swede,  could  sing 
"  Annie  Laurie  "  as  Melody  sang  it.  Sitting  there  in  her 
simple  cotton  dress,  her  head  thrown  slightly  back,  her 
bands  folded,  her  eyes  fixed  in  their  unchanging  calm,  she 


TEE  DOCTOR.  \\ 

made  a  picture  that  the  stranger  never  forgot.  He  started 
as  the  first  notes  of  her  voice  stole  forth,  and  hung 
quivering  on  the  air,  — 

"  Maxwellton  braes  are  bonnie, 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew." 

What  wonder  was  this  ?  Dr.  Anthony  had  come  prepared 
to  hear,  he  quite  knew  what,  —  a  child's  voice,  pretty,  per- 
haps, thin  and  reedy,  nasal,  of  course.  His  good  friend 
Brown  was  an  excellent  physician,  but  with  no  knowledge 
of  music;  how  should  he  have  any,  living  buried  in  the 
country,  twenty  miles  from  a  railway,  forty  miles  from  a 
concert  ?  Brown  had  said  so  much  about  the  blind  child 
that  it  would  have  been  discourteous  for  him,  Dr.  Anthony, 
to  refuse  to  see  and  hear  her  when  he  came  to  pass  a  night 
with  his  old  college  chum ;  but  his  assent  had  been  rather 
wearily  given :  Dr.  Anthony  detested  juvenile  prodigies.  But 
what  was  this  ?  A  voice  full  and  round  as  the  voices  of 
Italy ;  clear  as  a  bird's ;  swelling  ever  richer,  fuller,  rising 
in  tones  so  pure,  so  noble,  that  the  heart  of  the  listener 
ached,  as  the  poet's  heart  at  hearing  the  nightingale,  with 
almost  painful  pleasure.  Amazement  and  delight  made 
Dr.  Anthony's  face  a  study,  which  his  friend  perused  with 
keen  enjoyment.  He  knew,  good  Dr.  Brown,  that  he  him- 
self was  a  musical  nobody ;  he  knew  pretty  well  (what  does 
a  doctor  not  know  ?)  what  Anthony  was  thinking  as  they 
drove  along.  But  he  knew  Melody  too  ;  and  he  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  chuckled  inwardly  at  the  discomfiture  of  his 
knowing  friend. 

The  song  died  away ;  and  the  last  notes  were  like  those 
of  the  skylark  when  she  sinks  into  her  nest  at  sunset 
The  listeners  drew  breath,  and  looked  at  each  other. 


12  MELODY. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  and  then,  "  Thank  you, 
Melody,"  said  Dr.  Brown.  "  That 's  the  finest  song  in  the 
world,  I  don't  care  what  the  next  is.  Now  run  along,  like 
my  good  maid,  and  sing  it  to  Neddy  Jackson,  and  he  will 
forget  all  about  his  eyes,  and  turn  into  a  great  pair  of  ears." 

The  child  laughed.  "  Neddy  will  want  '  The  British 
Grenadier,'  "  she  said.  "  That  is  his  greatest  song."  She 
ran  into  the  house  to  kiss  Miss  Kejoice,  came  out  with  her 
sun-bonnet  tied  under  her  chin,  and  lifted  her  face  to  kiss 
Miss  Vesta.  "I  sha'n't  be  gone  long,  Auntie,"  she  said 
brightly.  "  There  '11  be  plenty  of  time  to  make  the  cake 
after  dinner." 

Miss  Vesta  smoothed  the  dark  hair  with  a  motherly 
touch.  "  Doctor  does  n't  care  anything  about  our  cake,': 
she. said;  "he  isn't  coming  to  tea  to-night.  I  suppose 
you  'd  better  stay  as  long  as  you  're  needed.  I  should  not 
want  the  child  to  fret." 

"  Good-by,  Doctor,"  cried  the  child,  joyously,  turning  her 
bright  face  toward  the  buggy.  "  Good-by,  sir,"  making  a 
little  courtesy  to  Dr.  Anthony,  who  gravely  took  off  his  hat 
and  bowed  as  if  to  a  duchess.  "Good-by  again,  dear 
auntie ; "  and  singing  softly  to  herself,  she  walked  quickly 
away. 

Dr.  Anthony  looked  after  her,  silent  for  a  while.  "  Blind 
from  birth  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  From  birth,"  replied  Dr.  Brown.  "  No  hope  ;  I  Ve  had 
Strong  down  to  see  her.  But  she 's  the  happiest  creature 
in  the  world,  I  do  believe.  How  does  she  sing  ?  "  he  asked 
with  ill-concealed  triumph.  "Pretty  well  for  a  country 
child,  eh  ?  " 

"  She  sings  like  an  angel,"  said  Dr.  Anthony,  —  "  like  au 
angel  from  heaven." 


THE  DOCTOR.  18 

M  She  has  a  right  to,  sir,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  gravely.  "  She 
is  a  child  of  God,  who  has  never  forgotten  her  Father." 

Dr.  Anthony  turned  toward  the  speaker,  whom  he  had 
almost  forgotten  in  his  intense  interest  in  the  child. 
"  This  lovely  child  is  your  own  niece,  Madam  ? "  he 
inquired.  "  She  must  be  unspeakably  dear  to  you." 

Miss  Vesta  flushed.  She  did  not  often  speak  as  she 
had  just  done,  being  a  New  England  woman ;  but  "Annie 
Laurie5'  always  carried  her  out  of  herself,  she  declared. 
The  answer  to  the  gentleman's  question  was  one  she  never 
liked  to  make.  "  She  is  not  my  niece  in  blood,"  she  said 
slowly.  "  We  are  single  women,  my  sister  and  I ;  but  she 
is  like  our  own  daughter  to  us." 

"Twelve  years  this  very  month,  Vesta,  isn't  it,"  said 
Dr.  Brown,  kindly,  "  since  the  little  one  came  to  you  ?  Do 
you  remember  what  a  wild  night  it  was  ?" 

Miss  Vesta  nodded.  "  I  hear  the  wind  now  when  I  think 
of  it,"  she  said. 

"  The  child  is  an  orphan,"  the  doctor  continued,  turning 
to  his  friend.  "Her  mother  was  a  young  Irish  woman, 
who  came  here  looking  for  work.  She  was  poor,  her 
husband  dead,  consumption  on  her,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 
She  died  at  the  poorhouse,  and  left  this  blind  baby.  Tell 
Dr.  Anthony  how  it  happened,  Vesta." 

Miss  Vesta  frowned  and  blushed.  She  wished  Doctor 
would  remember  that  his  friend  was  a  stranger  to  her.  But 
in  a  moment  she  raised  her  head.  "  There 's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of,  after  all,"  she  said,  a  little  proudly.  "  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  not  tell  you,  sir.  I  went  up  to  the 
poor-farm  one  evening,  to  carry  a  basket  of  strawberries. 
We  had  a  great  quantity,  and  I  thought  some  of  the  people 
up  there  might  like  them,  for  they  had  few  luxuries,  though 


14  MELODY. 

1  don't  believe  they  ever  went  hungry.  And  when  1  came 
there,  Mrs.  Green,  who  kept  the  farm  then,  came  out 
looking  all  in  a  maze.  '  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing 
in  your  life  ? '  she  cried  out,  the  minute  she  set  eyes  on 
me.  « I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,'  said  I.  '  Perhaps  I  did,  and 
perhaps  I  did  n't.  How  's  the  baby  that  poor  soul  left  ?  '  I 
said.  It  was  two  weeks  since  the  mother  died  ;  and  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  went  up  about  as  much  to  see  how  the  child 
was  getting  on  as  to  take  the  strawberries,  though  I  don't 
know  that  I  realized  it  till  this  very  minute."  She  smiled 
grimly,  and  went  on.  " '  That 's  just  it,'  Mrs.  Green  screams 
out,  right  in  my  face.  'Dr.  Brown  has  just  been  here,  and 
he  says  the  child  is  blind,  and  will  be  blind  all  her  days, 
and  we  've  got  to  bring  her  up ;  and  I  'd  like  to  know  if  I 
have  n't  got  enough  to  do  without  feedin'  blind  children  ?  ' 
I  just  looked  at  her.  'I  don't  know  that  a  deaf  woman 
would  be  much  better  than  a  blind  child,'  said  I ;  <  so  I  '11 
thank  you  to  speak  like  a  human  being,  Liza  Green,  and 
not  scream  at  me.  Are  n't  you  ashamed  ? '  I  said.  '  The 
child  can't  help  being  blind,  I  suppose.  Poor  little  lamb  1 
as  if  it  hadn't  enough,  with  no  father  nor  mother  in 
the  world.'  '  I  don't  care, J  says  Liza,  crazy  as  ever ;  '  I 
can't  stand  it.  I  've  got  all  I  can  stand  now,  with  a  feeble- 
minded boy  and  two  so  old  they  can't  feed  themselves. 
That  Polly  is  as  crazy  as  a  loon,  and  the  rest  is  so  shif'less 
it  loosens  all  my  j'ints  to  look  at  'em.  I  won't  stand  no 
more,  for  Dr.  Brown  nor  anybody  else.'  And  she  set  her 
hands  on  her  hips  and  stared  at  me  as  if  she  'd  like  to  eat 
me,  sun-bonnet  and  all.  'Let  me  see  the  child,'  I  said. 
I  went  in,  and  there  it  lay,  —  the  prettiest  creature  you  ever 
saw  in  your  life,  with  its  eyes  wide  open,  just  as  they  are 
now,  and  the  sweetest  look  on  its  little  face.  Well,  there, 


THE  DOCTOti.  16 

you'd  know  it  came  straight  from  heaven,  if  you  saw 
it  in  —  Well,  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  'm  saying. 
You  must  excuse  me,  sir  !  "  and  Miss  Vesta  paused  in  some 
confusion.  " «  Somebody  ought  to  adopt  it,'  said  L  '  It 's 
a  beautiful  child;  any  one  might  be  proud  of  it  when  it 
grew  up.'  'I  guess  when  you  find  anybody  that  would 
adopt  a  blind  child,  you  '11  find  the  cat  settin'  on  hen's 
eggs,'  said  Liza  Green.  I  sat  and  held  the  child  a  little 
while,  trying  to  think  of  some  one  who  would  be  likely 
to  take  care  of  it ;  but  I  could  n't  think  of  any  one,  for 
as  she  said,  so  it  was.  By  and  by  I  kissed  the  poor  little 
pretty  thing,  and  laid  it  back  in  its  cradle,  and  tucked  it 
up  well,  though  it  was  a  warm  night.  .*  You  '11  take  care 
of  that  child,  Liza,'  I  said,  '  as  long  as  it  stays  with  you, 
or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  There  are  plenty  of  people 
who  would  like  the  work  here,  if  you  're  tired  of  it,'  I  said. 
She  quieted  down  at  that,  for  she  knew  that  a  word  from 
me  would  set  the  doctor  to  thinking,  and  he  was  n't  going 
to  have  that  blind  child  slighted,  well  I  knew.  Well,  sir, 
I  came  home,  and  told  Rejoice." 

"Her  sister,"  put  in  Dr.  Brown,  —  "a  crippled  saint, 
been  in  her  bed  thirty  years.  She  and  Melody  keep  a 
small  private  heaven,  and  Vesta  is  the  only  sinner 
admitted." 

"  Doctor,  you  're  very  profane,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  reprov- 
ingly. "  I  've  never  seen  my  sister  Rejoice  angry,  sir,  ex- 
cept that  one  time,  when  I  told  her.  '  Where  is  the  child  ? ' 
she  says.  '  Why,  where  do  you  suppose  ? '  said  I.  '  In  its 
cradle,  of  course.  I  tucked  it  up  well  before  I  came  away, 
and  she  won't  dare  to  mistreat  it  for  one  while,'  I  said.  '  Go 
and  get  it ! '  says  my  sister  Rejoice.  '  How  dared  you  come 
home  without  it  ?  Go  and  get  it  this  minute,  do  you  hear  ? ' 


16  MELODY. 

I  stared  as  if  I  had  seen  a  vision.  '  Eejoice,  what  are  you 
thinking  of  ? '  I  asked.  '  Bring  that  child  here  ?  Why, 
what  should  we  do  with  it  ?  I  can't  take  care  of  it,  nor 
you  either.'  My  sister  turned  the  color  of  fire.  'No  one 
else  shall  take  care  of  it,'  she  says,  as  if  she  was  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  on  a  pillow.  '  Go  and  get  it  this  minute, 
Vesta.  Don't  wait ;  the  Lord  must  not  be  kept  waiting. 
Go,  I  tell  you ! '  She  looked  so  wild  I  was  fairly  fright- 
ened; so  I  tried  to  quiet  her.  I  thought  her  mind  was 
touched,  some  way.  *  Well,  I  '11  go  to-morrow,'  says  I, 
soothing  her;  '  I  could  n't  go  now,  anyhow,  Rejoice.  Just 
hear  it  rain  and  blow  !  It  came  on  just  as  I  stepped  inside 
the  door,  and  it 's  a  regular  storm  now.  Be  quiet,'  I  said, 
*  and  I  '11  go  up  in  the  morning  and  see  about  it.'  My  sister 
sat  right  up  in  the  bed.  '  You  '11  go  now,'  she  says,  '  or  I  '11 
go  myself.  Now,  this  living  minute  !  Quick  ! '  I  went, 
sir.  The  fire  in  her  eyes  would  have  scorched  me  if  I  had 
looked  at  it  a  minute  longer.  I  thought  she  was  coming  out 
of  the  bed  after  me,  —  she,  who  had  not  stirred  for  twenty 
years.  I  caught  up  a  shawl,  threw  another  over  my 
shoulders,  and  ran  for  the  poor-farm.  'T  was  a  perfect 
tempest,  but  I  never  felt  it.  Something  seemed  to  drive 
me,  as  if  it  was  a  whip  laid  across  my  shoulders.  I  thought 
it  was  my  sister's  eyes,  that  had  never  looked  hard  at  me 
since  she  was  born  ;  but  maybe  it  was  something  else  besides. 
They  say  there  are  no  miracles  in  these  days,  but  we  don't 
know  everything  yet.  I  ran  in  at  the  farm,  before  them  all, 
dripping,  looking  like  a  maniac,  I  don't  doubt.  I  caught 
up  the  child  out  of  the  cradle,  and  wrapped  it  in  the  shawl 
I  ;d  brought,  and  ran  off  again  before  they  'd  got  their  eyes 
shut  from  staring  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  spirit  of  evil.  How 
my  breath  held  out,  don't  ask  me ;  but  I  got  home,  and  ran 


THE  DOCTOR.  1? 

into  the  chamber,  and  laid  the  child  down  by  the  side  of  my 
sister  Rejoice." 

Miss  Vesta  paused,  and  the  shadow  of  a  great  awe  crept 
into  her  keen  blue  eyes.  "The  poor-farm  was  struck  by 
lightning  that  night ! "  she  said.  "  The  cradle  where  that 
baby  was  lying  was  shattered  into  kindling-wood,  and  Liza 
Green  has  never  been  the  same  woman  from  that  day  to 
this." 


I 


CHAPTER  HI. 

ON  THE  ROAD. 

A  /TELODY  went  singing  down  the  road.  She  walked 
^*-*-  quickly,  with  a  light  swaying  motion,  graceful  as  a 
bird.  Her  hands  were  held  before  her,  not,  it  seemed, 
from  timidity,  but  rather  as  a  butterfly  stretches  out  its 
delicate  antennae,  touching,  feeling,  trying  its  way,  as  it 
goes  from  flower  to  flower.  Truly,  the  child's  light  fingers 
were  like  butterflies,  as  she  walked  beside  the  road,  reach- 
ing up  to  touch  the  hanging  sprays  of  its  bordering  willows, 
or  caressing  the  tiny  flowers  that  sprang  up  along  the  foot- 
path. She  sang,  too,  as  she  went,  a  song  the  doctor  had 
taught  her :  — 

"  Who  is  Silvia,  and  what  is  she, 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 
The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  adored  she  might  f.'e." 

One  might  have  thought  that  Si  Ivia  was  not  far  to  seek,  on 
looking  into  the  fair  face  of  the  jhild.  Now  she  stopped, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  with  he  id  thrown  back,  and  nos- 
trils slightly  distended.  "  Meadc  w-sweet !  "  she  said  softly 
to  herself.  "  Is  n't  it  out  early  ?  the  dear.  I  must  find  it 
for  Aunt  Joy."  She  stooped,  and  passed  her  light,  quick 
tands  over  the  wayside  grasses.  Every  blade  and  leaf  was 
a  familiar  friend,  and  she  greeted  them  as  she  touched 


ON  THE  ROAD.  19 

them,  weaving  their  names  into  her  song  in  childish 
fashion,  — 

"  Buttercup  and  daisy  dear,  sorrel  for  her  eating, 
Mint  and  rose  to  please  the  nose  of  my  pretty  sweeting." 

Then  she  laughed  outright.  "When  I  grow  up,  I  will 
make  songs,  too,"  she  said,  as  she  stooped  to  pick  the 
meadow-sweet.  "I  will  make  the  words,  and  Rosin  shall 
make  the  music ;  and  we  will  go  through  the  village  sing- 
ing, till  everybody  comes  out  of  the  houses  to  listen :  — 

Meadow-sweet  is  a  treat ; 

Columbine 's  a  fairy  ; 

Mallow  's  fine,  sweet  as  wine,  — 

What  rhymes  with  fairy,  I  wonder.  Dairy  ;  but  that  won't 
come  right.  Airy,  hairy,  — yes,  now  I  have  it!  — 

Mallow  's  fine,  sweet  as  wine, 
To  feed  my  pet  canary. 

I  '11  sing  that  to  Neddy,"  said  Melody,  laughing  to  herself 
as  she  went  along.  "  I  can  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  '  Lightly 
Row.'  Dear  little  boy ! "  she  added,  after  a  silence. 
"  Think,  if  he  had  been  blind,  how  dreadful  it  would  have 
been !  Of  course  it  does  n't  matter  when  you  have  never 
seen  at  all,  because  you  know  how  to  get  on  all  right ;  but 
to  have  it,  and  then  lose  it  —  oh  dear !  but  then,"  —  and 
her  face  brightened  again,  —  "he  is  n't  going  to  be  blind, 
you  see,  so  what 's  the  use  of  worrying  about  it  ? 

The  worry  cow 

Might  have  lived  till  now, 

If  she  'd  only  saved  her  breath. 

She  thought  the  hay 

Would  n't  last  all  day, 

So  she  choked  herself  to  death  ** 


20  MELODY. 

Presently  the  child  stopped  again,  and  listened.  The 
sound  of  wheels  was  faintly  audible.  No  one  else  could 
have  heard  it  but  Melody,  whose  ears  were  like  those  of  a 
fox.  "  Whose  wagon  squeaks  like  that  ?  "  she  said,  as  she 
listened.  "  The  horse  interferes,  too.  Oh,  of  course  ;  it 's 
Eben  Loomis.  He  '11  pick  me  up  and  give  me  a  ride,  and 
then  it  won't  take  so  long."  She  walked  along,  turning 
back  every  now  and  then,  as  the  sound  of  wheels  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  At  last,  "  Good-morning,  Eben  ! "  she 
cried,  smiling  as  the  wagon  drove  up ;  "  will  you  take  me 
on  a  piece,  please  ?  " 

"Wai,  I  might,  perhaps,"  admitted  the  driver,  cautiously, 
"if  I  was  sure  you  was  all  right,  Mel'dy.  How  d'you 
know  'twas  me  comin',  I'd  like  to  know?  I  never  said  a 
word,  nor  so  much  as  whistled,  since  I  come  in  sight  of  ye." 
The  man,  a  wiry,  yellow-haired  Yankee,  bent  down  as  he 
spoke,  and  taking  the  child's  hand,  swung  her  lightly  up 
to  the  seat  beside  him. 

Melody  laughed  joyously.  "  I  should  know  your  wagon 
if  I  heard  it  in  Russia,  Eben,"  she  said.  "  Besides,  poor 
old  Jerry  knocks  his  hind  feet  together  so,  I  heard  him 
clicking  along  even  before  I  heard  the  wagon  squeak. 
How  's  Mandy,  Eben  ?  " 

"Mandy,  she  ain't  very  well,"  replied  the  countryman. 
<;  She 's  ben  havin'  them  weakly  spells  right  along  lately. 
Seems  though  she  was  failin'  up  sometimes,  but  I  dono." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  is  n't,  Eben,"  answered  Melody,  cheerfully. 
"  You  said  that  six  years  ago,  do  you  know  it  ?  and  Mandy 
is  n't  a  bit  worse  than  she  was  then." 

"Well,  that's  so,"  assented  the  man,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause.  "That  is  so,  Mel'dy,  though  how  you  come  to 
know  it  is  a  myst'ry  to  me.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  doiio 
but  she 's  a  leetle  mite  better  than  she  was  six  years  ago. 


O.V   THE  ROAD.  21 

Wai !  now  it 's  surprisin',  ain't  it,  that  you  should  know 
that,  you  child,  without  the  use  of  your  eyes,  and  I 
should  n't,  seein'  her  every  day  and  all  day  ?  How  do  you 
account  for  that,  now,  hey  ?  "  He  turned  on  his  seat,  and, 
looked  keenly  at  the  child,  as  if  half  expecting  her  to  meet 
his  gaze. 

"  It 's  easy  enough !  "  said  Melody,  with  her  quiet  smile. 
"It's  just  because  you  see  her  so  much,  Eben,  that  you 
can't  tell.  Besides,  I  can  tell  from  Mandy's  voice.  Her 
voice  used  to  go  down  when  she  stopped  speaking,  like 
this,  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  [with  a  falling  inflection  which 
was  the  very  essence  of  melancholy] ;  and  now  her  voice 
goes  up  cheerfully,  at  the  end,  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  Don't 
you  see  the  difference,  Eben  ?  —  so  of  course  I  know  she 
must  be  a  great  deal  better." 

"  I  swan ! <"  replied  Eben  Loomis,  simply.  "  '  How  do 
you  do  ?  '  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  so  that 's  the  way  you  find 
out  things,  is  it,  Mel'dy  ?  Well,  you  're  a  curus  child, 
that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  you.  —  Where  d'  you  say  you 
was  goin'  ?  "  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  did  n't  say,"  said  Melody.  "  But  I  'm  going  to  Mrs. 
Jackson's,  to  see  Neddy." 

"  Want  to  know,"  said  her  companion.  "  Goin'  — 
Hevin'  some  kind  o'  trouble  with  his  eyes,  ain't  he  ?  "  He 
stopped  short,  with  a  glance  at  the  child's  clear  eyes.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  expect  to  find  some  answering  look 
in  them. 

"  They  thought  he  was  going  blind,"  said  Melody ;  "  but 
it  is  all  right  now.  I  do  wish  people  would  n't  tell  Mrs. 
Jackson  to  keep  putting  things  in  his  eyes.  Why  can't 
they  let  her  do  what  the  doctor  tells  her,  and  not  keep 
wanting  her  to  try  all  kinds  of  nonsense  ?  " 


22  MJSLODY. 

•''Wai,  that's  so,"  assented  Eben,  —  "that's  so,  every 
time.  I  was  down  there  a  spell  back,  and  I  says,  'Phoebe,' 
I  says,  <  don't  you  do  a  thing  folks  tells  you,'  says  I.  '  Dr. 
Brown  knows  what  he  's  about,  and  don't  you  do  a  thing 
but  what  he  says,  unless  it 's  jest  to  wet  his  eyes  up  with 
a  drop  o'  tobacco-juice,'  says  I.  '  There 's  nothin'  like 
tobacco-juice  for  weakly  eyes,  that 's  sure  ; '  and  of  course 
I  knew  Doctor  would  ha'  said  so  himself  ef  he  'd  ha'  been 
there.  Wai,  here  we  be  to  Jackson's  now,"  added  the  good 
man,  pulling  up  his  horse.  "  Hold  on  a  minute,  and  I  '11 
help  ye  down.  Wai,  there ! "  as  Melody  sprang  lightly 
from  the  wagon,  just  touching  his  hand  by  way  of  greeting 
as  she  went,  "  if  you  ain't  the  spryest  ever  I  see !  " 

"  Good-by,  Eben,  and  thank  you  ever  so  much,"  said  the 
child.  "  Good-by,  Jerry." 

"  Come  down  an'  see  us,  Mel'dy !  "  Eben  called  after  her, 
as  she  turned  toward  the  house  with  unfaltering  step. 
"  'T  would  do  Mandy  a  sight  o'  good.  Come  down  and 
stop  to  supper.  You  ain't  took  a  meal  o'  victuals  with  us 
I  don't  know  when." 

Melody  promised  to  come  soon,  and  took  her  way  up  the 
grassy  path,  while  the  countryman  gazed  after  her  with  a 
look  of  wondering  admiration. 

"  That  child  knows  more  than  most  folks  that  hev  their 
sight !  "  he  soliloquized.  "  What 's  she  doin'  now  ?  Oh, 
stoppin'  to  pick  a  posy,  for  the  child,  likely.  Now  they  '11 
all  swaller  her  alive.  Yes ;  thar  they  come.  Look  at  the 
way  she  takes  that  child  up,  now,  will  ye  ?  He 's  e'en 
a' most  as  big  as  she  is ;  but  you  'd  say  she  was  his  mother 
ten  times  over,  from  the  way  she  handles  him.  Look  at 
her  set  down  on  the  doorstep,  tellin'  him  a  story,  I  '11  bet. 
I  tell  ye !  hear  that  little  feller  laugh,  and  he  was  cryin' 


ON   THE  ROAD,  23 

all  last  night,  Handy"  says.  I  would  n't  mind  hearin*  that 
story  myself.  Faculty,  that  gal  has;  that's  the  name  for 
it,  sir.  Git  up,  Jerry  !  this  won't  buy  the  child  a  cake ;  " 
and  with  many  a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  the  good  man 
drove  en. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ROSIN    THE    BEAU. 

HPHE  afternoon  light  was  falling  soft  and  sweet,  as  an 
-*•  old  man  came  slowly  along  the  road  that  led  to  the 
village.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  and  he  stooped  as  he  walked,  — 
not  with  the  ordinary  round-shouldered  slouch,  but  with  a 
one-sided  droop,  as  if  he  had  a  habit  of  bending  over  some- 
thing. His  white  hair  was  fancifully  arranged,  with  a  curl 
over  the  forehead  such  as  little  boys  used  to  wear ;  his 
brown  eyes  were  bright  and  quick  as  a  bird's,  and  like  a 
bird's,  they  glanced  from  side  to  side,  taking  in  everything. 
He  carried  an  oblong  black  box,  evidently  a  violin-case,  at 
which  he  cast  an  affectionate  look  from  time  to  time.  As 
he  approached  the  village,  his  glances  became  more  and 
more  keenly  intelligent.  He  seemed  to  be  greeting  a  friend 
in  every  tree,  in  every  straggling  rose-bush  along  the  road- 
side ;  he  nodded  his  head,  and  spoke  softly  from  time  to 
time. 

"  Getting  on  now,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Here  's  the  big 
rose-bush  she  was  sitting  under,  the  last  time  I  came  along. 
Nobody  here  now;  but  she'll  be  coming  directly,  up  from 
the  ground  or  down  from  the  sky,  or  through  a  hole  in  the 
sunset.  Do  you  remember  how  she  caught  her  little  gown 
on  that  fence-rail  ?  "  He  bent  over,  and  seemed  to  address 
his  violin.  "  Sat  down  and  took  out  her  needle  and  thread, 
and  mended  it  as  neat  as  any  womaii;  and  then  ran  her 


XOSIN  THE  BEAU.  25 

butterfly  hands  over  me,  and  found  the  hole  in  my  coat, 
and  called  me  careless  boy,  and  mended  that.  Yes,  yes; 
Kosin  remembers  every  place  where  he  saw  his  girl.  Old 
Rosin  remembers.  There 's  the  turn ;  now  it's  getting  time 
for  to  be  playing  our  tune,  sending  our  letter  of  introduction 
along  the  road  before  us.  Hey  ?  " 

He  sat  down  under  a  spreading  elder-bush,  and  proceeded 
to  open  his  violin-case.  Drawing  out  the  instrument  with 
as  much  care  as  if  he  were  a  mother  taking  her  babe  from 
the  cradle,  he  looked  it  all  over  with  anxious  scrutiny, 
scanning  every  line  and  crack,  as  the  mother  scans  face 
and  bands  and  tiny  curled-up  feet.  Finding  all  in  order, 
he  wiped  it  with  a  silk  handkerchief  (the  special  property 
of  the  instrument;  a  cotton  one  did  duty  for  himself),  pol- 
ished it,  and  tuned  it,  and  polished  again.  "Must  look 
well,  my  beauty,"  he  murmured ;  "  must  look  well.  Not  a 
speck  of  dust  but  she  'd  feel  it  with  those  little  fingers, 
you  know.  Ready  now  ?  Well,  then,  speak  up  for  your 
master;  speak,  voice  of  my  heart!  'A.  welcome  for  Rosin 
the  Beau.'  Ask  for  it,  Music ! " 

Do  people  still  play  "Rosin  the  Beau,"  I  wonder?  I 
asked  a  violinist  to  play  it  to  me  the  other  day,  and  he  had 
never  heard  of  the  tune.  He  played  me  something  else, 
which  he  said  was  very  fine,  —  a  fantasia  in  E  flat,  I  think 
it  was  ;  but  I  did  not  care  for  it.  I  wanted  to  hear  "  Rosin 
the  Beau,"  the  cradle-song  of  the  fiddle,  —  the  sweet,  simple} 
foolish  old  song,  which  every  "blind  crowder"  who  could 
handle  a  fiddle-bow  could  play  in  his  sleep  fifty  years  ago, 
and  which  is  now  wellnigh  forgotten.  It  is  not  a  beautiful 
air;  it  may  have  no  merit  at  all,  musically  speaking;  but 
I  love  it  well,  and  wish  I  might  hear  it  occasionally  in- 
stead of  the  odious  "  Carnival  of  Venice,"  which  tortures 


26  MELODV. 

my  ears  and  wastes  my  nervous  system  at  every  concert 
where  the  Queen  of  Instruments  holds  her  com-t. 

The  old  man  took  up  his  fiddle,  and  laid  his  cheek  lov- 
ingly against  it.  A  moment  he  stood  still,  as  if  holding 
silent  commune  with  the  spirit  of  music,  the  tricksy  Ariel 
imprisoned  in  the  old  wooden  case  j  then  he  began  to  play 
"  Rosin  the  Beau."  As  he  played,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  bend  of  the  road  some  rods  ahead,  as  if  expecting 
every  moment  to  see  some  one  appear  from  the  direction 
of  the  village, 

•'  I  've  travelled  this  country  all  over, 
And  now  to  the  next  I  must  go; 
But  I  know  that  good  quarters  await  me,  * 

And  a  welcome  for  Rosin  the  Beau." 

As  he  played,  with  bold  but  tender  touch,  the  touch  of  a 
master,  round  the  corner  a  figure  came  flying,  —  a  child's 
figure,  with  hair  all  afloat,  and  arms  wide-opened.  The 
old  man's  face  lightened,  softened,  became  transfigured 
with  joy  and  love ;  but  he  said  no  word,  only  played  stead- 
ily on. 

"  Rosin  ! "  cried  Melody,  stopping  close  before  him,  with 
outstretched  arms.  "  Stop,  Rosin ;  I  want  to  kiss  you,  and 
I  am  afraid  of  hurting  her.  Put  her  down,  do  you  hear  ?  " 
She  stamped  her  foot  imperiously,  and  the  old  man  laid  the 
fiddle  down  and  held  out  his  arms  in  turn. 

"Melody,"  he  said  tenderly,  taking  the  child  on  his 
knee,  —  "little  Melody,  how  are  you?  So  you  heard  old 
Rosin,  did  you  ?  You  knew  the  old  man  was  here,  waiting 
for  his  little  maid  to  come  and  meet  him,  as  she  always 
has.  Where  were  you,  Melody  ?  Tell  me,  now.  I  did  n't 
seem  to  hear  you  till  just  as  you  came  to  the  corner;  I 
didn't,  now." 


JIOSIN  THE  BEAU.  27 

"  I  was  down  by  the  heater-piece,"  said  the  child.  "  I 
went  to  look  for  wild  strawberries,  with  Aunt  Vesta,  i 
heard  you,  Eosin,  the  moment  you  laid  your  bow  across 
her;  but  Aunt  Vesta  said  no,  she  knew  it  was  all  nonsense, 
and  we'd  better  finish  our  strawberries,  anyhow.  And 
then  I  heard  that  you  wondered  why  I  didn't  come,  and 
that  you  wanted  me,  and  I  kissed  Auntie,  and  just  flew. 
You  heard  how  fast  I  was  coining,  when  you  did  hear  me ; 
didn't  you,  Rosin  dear?" 

"I  heard,"  said  the  old  man,  smoothing  her  curls  back. 
"I  knew  you'd  come,  you  see,  jewel,  soon  as  you  could  get 
here.  And  how  are  the  good  ladies,  hey ;  and  how  are  you 
yourself  ?  —  though  I  can  tell  that  by  looking  at  you,  sure 
enough." 

"  Do  I  look  well  ?  "  asked  the  child,  with  much  interest. 
"Is  my  hair  very  nice  and  curly,  Rosin,  and  do  my  eyes 
still  look  as  if  they  were  real  eyes  ?  "  She  looked  up  so 
brightly  that  any  stranger  would  have  been  startled  into 
thinking  that  she  could  really  see. 

"  Bright  as  dollars,  they  are,"  assented  the  old  man. 
"  Dollars  ?  no,  that 's  no  name  for  it.  The  stars  are  nearest 
it,  Melody.  And  your  hair  —  " 

"My  hair  is  like  sweet  Alice's,"  said  the  child,  confi- 
dently, —  "  sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown.  I  prom- 
ised Auntie  Joy  we  would  sing  that  for  her,  the  very  next 
time  you  came,  but  I  never  thought  you  would  be  here 
to-day,  Rosin. 

'  Where  have  you  been,  my  long,  long  love,  this  seven  long  years  and 
more  ? ' 

That 's  a  ballad,  Rosin  j  Doctor  taught  it  to  me.  It  is  a 
beauty,  and  you  must  make  me  a  tune  for  it.  But  where 
have  you  been?" 


28  MELODY. 

"I've  been  up  and  down  the  earth,"  the  old  man  replied, 
—  "up  and  down  the  earth,  Melody.  Sometimes  here  at?d 
sometimes  there.  I  'd  feel  a  call  here,  and  I  'd  feel  a  call 
there ;  and  I  seemed  to  be  wanted,  generally,  just  in  those 
very  places  I'd  felt  called  to.  Do  you  believe  in  calls. 
Melody  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  replied  the  child,  promptly.  "  Only 
all  the  people  who  call  you  can't  get  you,  Rosin,  'cause 
you  'd  be  in  fifty  pieces  if  they  did."  She  laughed  joy- 
ously, throwing  her  head  back  with  the  birdlike,  raptu- 
rous motion  which  seemed  the  very  expression  of  hei 
nature. 

The  old  fiddler  watched  her  with  delight.  "You  shall 
hear  all  my  stories,"  he  said ;  "  everything  you  shall  hear, 
little  Melody ;  but  here  we  are  at  the  house  now,  and  1 
must  make  my  manners  to  the  ladies." 

He  paused,  and  looked  critically  at  his  blue  coat,  which, 
though  threadbare,  was  scrupulously  clean.  He  flecked 
some  imaginary  dust  from  his  trousers,  and  ran  his  hand 
lightly  through  his  hair,  bringing  the  snowy  curl  which 
was  the  pride  of  his  heart  a  little  farther  over  his  fore- 
head. "  Now  I  '11  do,  maybe,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  And 
sure  enough,  there  's  Miss  Vesta  in  the  doorway,  looking 
like  a  China  rose  in  full  bloom."  He  advanced,  hat  in  hand, 
with  a  peculiar  sliding  step,  which  instantly  suggested 
"chassez  across  to  partners." 

"  Miss  Vesta,  I  hope  your  health  's  good  ?  " 

Miss  Vesta  held  out  her  hand  cordially.  "Why,  Mr. 
Be  Arthenay,1  is  this  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  This  is  a  pleasure  ! 
Melody  was  sure  it  was  you,  and  she  ran  off  like  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  when  I  could  not  hear  a  sound.  But  I  'm  very 

1   Pronounced  Dee  Arthenay 


ROSIN  THE  BEAU.  29 

glad  to  see  you.  We  were  saying  only  yesterday  how 
long  a  time  it  was  since  you  'd  been  here.  Now  you  must 
sit  down,  and  tell  us  all  the  news.  Stop,  though,"  she 
added,  with  a  glance  at  the  vine-clad  window ;  "  Rejoice 
would  like  to  see  you,  and  hear  the  news  too.  Wait  a 
moment,  Mr.  De  Arthenay  1  I  '11  go  in  and  move  her  up  by 
the  window,  so  that  she  can  hear  you." 

She  hastened  into  the  house ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
blinds  were  thrown  back,  and  Miss  Rejoice's  sweet  voice 
was  heard,  saying,  "  Good-day,  Mr.  De  Arthenay.  It  is 
always  a  good  day  that  brings  you." 

The  old  man  sprang  up  from  his  seat  in  the  porch,  and 
made  a  low  bow  to  the  window.  "  It 's  a  treat  to  hear  your 
voice,  Miss  Rejoice,  so  it  is,"  he  said  heartily.  "I  hope 
your  health 's  been  pretty  good  lately  ?  It  seems  to  me 
your  voice  sounds  stronger  than  it  did  the  last  time  I  was 
here." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  very  well,"  responded  the  invalid,  cheerfully. 
"  Very  well,  I  feel  this  summer ;  don't  I,  Vesta  ?  And  where 
have  you  been,  Mr.  De  Arthenay,  all  this  time  ?  I  'm  sure 
you  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  us.  It 's  as  good  as  a  news- 
paper when  you  come  along,  we  always  say." 

The  old  fiddler  cleared  his  throat,  and  settled  himself 
comfortably  in  a  corner  of  the  porch,  with  Melody's  hand 
in  his.  Miss  Vesta  produced  her  knitting ;  Melody  gave  a 
little  sigh  of  perfect  content,  and  nestled  up  to  her  friend's 
side,  leaning  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Begin  to  tell  now,  Rosin,"  she  said.  "  Tell  us  all  that 
you  know." 

"Tell  you  everything,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully.  "Not 
all,  little  Melody.  I  've  seen  some  things  that  you 
would  n't  like  to  hear  about,  —  things  that  would  grieve 


30  MELODY. 

your  tender  heart  more  than  a  little.  We  will  not  talk 
about  those ;  but  I  have  seen  bright  things  too,  sure  enough. 
Why,  only  day  before  yesterday  I  was  at  a  wedding,  over 
in  Pegrum ;  a  pretty  wedding  it  was  too.  You  remember 
Myra  Bassett,  Miss  Vesta  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  replied  Miss  Vesta.  "  She  married 
John  Andrews,  her  father's  second  cousin  once  removed. 
Don't  tell  me  that  Myra  has  a  daughter  old  enough  to  be 
married  I  Or  is  it  a  son  ?  either  way,  it  is  ridiculous." 

"A  daughter!"  said  the  old  man,  —  " the  prettiest  girl 
in  Pegrum.  Like  a  ripe  chestnut,  more  than  anything. 
Two  lads  were  in  love  with  her ;  there  may  have  been  a 
dozen,  but  these  two  I  know  about.  One  of  them — I'll 
name  no  names,  't  is  kinder  not  —  found  that  she  wanted 
to  marry  a  hero  (what  girl  does  not  ?),  so  he  thought  he 
would  try  his  hand  at  heroism.  There  was  a  picnic  this 
spring,  and  he  hired  a  boy  (or  so  the  boy  says  —  it  may  be 
wicked  gossip)  to  upset  the  boat  she  was  in,  so  that  he,  the 
lover/,  might  save  her  life.  But,  lo  and  behold!  he  was 
taken  with  a  cramp  in  the  water,  and  was  almost  drowned, 
and  the  second  lover  jumped  in,  and  saved  them  both.  So 
she  married  the  second  (whom  she  had  liked  all  along), 
and  then  the  boy  told  his  story." 

"  Miserable  sneak  ! "  ejaculated  Miss  Vesta.  "  To  risk 
the  life  of  the  woman  he  pretended  to  love,  just  to  show 
himself  off." 

"  Still,  I  am  sorry  for  him  ! "  said  Miss  Rejoice,  through 
the  window.  (Miss  Rejoice  was  always  sorry  for  wrong- 
doers, much  sorrier  than  for  the  righteous  who  suffered. 
They  would  be  sure  to  get  good  out  of  it,  she  said,  but  the 
poor  sinners  generally  did  n't  know  how.)  "  What  did  he 
do,  poor  soul  ?  " 


KOSIN  THE  BEAU.  rfl 

"  He  went  away  !  "  replied  the  fiddler.  "  Pegrum 
would  u't  hold  him  ;  and  the  other  lad  was  a  good  shot, 
and  went  about  with  a  shot-gun.  But  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  about  the  wedding." 

"  Of  course ! "  cried  Melody.  "  What  did  the  bride 
wear  ?  That  is  the  most  important  part." 

De  Arthenay  cleared  his  throat,  and  looked  grave.  He 
always  made  a  point  of  remembering  the  dresses  at  wed- 
dings, and  was  proud  of  the  accomplishment,  —  a  rare  one 
in  his  sex. 

"Miss  Andrews  —  I  beg  her  pardon,  Mrs.  Nelson — had 
on  a  white  muslin  gown,  made  quite  full,  with  three  ruffles 
round  the  skirt.  There  was  lace  round  the  neck,  but  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  kind,  except  that  it  was  very  soft  and 
fine.  She  had  white  roses  on  the  front  of  her  gown,  and  in 
her  hair,  and  pink  ones  in  her  cheeks ;  her  eyes  were  like 
brown  diamonds,  and  she  had  little  white  satin  slippers,  for 
all  the  \forld  like  Cinderella.  They  were  a  present  from 
her  Grandmother  Anstey,  over  at  Bow  Mills.  Her  other 
grandmother,  Mrs.  Bowen,  gave  her  the  dress,  so  her  father 
and  mother  could  lay  out  all  they  wanted  to  on  the  supper ; 
and  a  handsome  supper  it  was.  Then  after  supper  they 
danced.  It  would  have  done  your  heart  good,  Miss  Vesta, 
to  see  that  little  bride  dance.  Ah  !  she  is  a  pretty  creature. 
There  was  another  young  woman,  too,  who  played  the 
piano.  Kate,  they  called  her,  but  I  don't  know  what  her 
other  name  was.  Anyway,  she  had  an  eye  like  black 
lightning  stirred  up  with  a  laugh,  and  a  voice  like  the 
'  Fisherman's  Hornpipe.' " 

He  took  up  his  fiddle,  and  softly,  delicately,  played  a  few 
bars  of  that  immortal  dance.  It  rippled  like  a  woman's 
laugh,  and  Melody  smiled  in  instant  sympathy. 


32  MELODY. 

"  I  wish  I  had  seen  her,"  she  cried.  "  Did  she  ;  /ay  well, 
Rosin  ?  " 

"  She  played  so  that  I  knew  she  must  be  either  French 
or  Irish ! n  the  fiddler  replied.  "  No  Yankee  ever  played 
dance-music  in  that  fashion :  I  made  bold  to  say  to  her,  as 
we  were  playing  together,  '  Etes-vous  compatriote  ? ' 

" '  More  power  to  your  elbow,'  said  she,  with  a  twinkle  of 
her  eye,  and  she  struck  into  '  Saint  Patrick's  Day  in  the 
Morning.'  I  took  it  up,  and  played  the  '  Marseillaise,'  over  it 
and  under  it,  and  round  it,  —  for  an  accompaniment,  you 
understand,  Melody ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  we  made  the  folks 
open  their  eyes.  Yes ;  she  was  a  fine  young  lady,  and  it 
was  a  fine  wedding  altogether. 

"  But  I  am  forgetting  a  message  I  have  for  you,  ladies. 
Last  week  I  was  passing  through  New  Joppa,  and  I  stopped 
to  call  on  Miss  Lovina  Green;  I  always  stop  there  when  I 
go  through  that  region.  Miss  Lovina  asked  me  to  tell  you 
—  let  me  see!  what  was  it?"  He  paused,  to  disentangle 
this  particular  message  from  the  many  he  always  carried, 
in  his  journeyings  from  one  town  to  another.  "  Oh,  yes, 
I  remember.  She  wanted  you  to  know  that  her  Uncle 
Eeuel  was  dead,  and  had  left  her  a  thousand  dollars,  so  she 
should  be  comfortable  the  rest  of  her  days.  She  thought 
you'd  be  glad  to  know  it." 

"  That  is  good  news  1 "  exclaimed  Miss  Vesta,  heartily. 
"  Poor  Lovina !  she  has  been  so  straitened  all  these  years, 
and  saw  no  prospect  of  anything  better.  The  best  day's 
work  Keuel  Green  has  ever  done  was  to  die  and  leave 
that  money  to  Lovina." 

"  Why,  Vesta !  "  said  Miss  Eejoice's  soft  voice  j  "  how 
you  do  talk  1 " 

"Well,  it  's  true  I"  Miss  Vesta  replied.    "  And  you  knovp 


THE  BEAU  B3 

it,  Rejoice,  my  dear,  as  well  as  1  do.  Any  other  news  in 
Joppa,  Mr.  De  Arthenay  ?  I  have  n't  heard  from  over 
there  for  a  long  time." 

"Why,  they've  been  having  some  robberies  in  Joppa," 
the  old  man  said,  —  "  regular  burglaries.  There  's  been  a 
great  excitement  about  it.  Several  houses  have  been  en- 
tered and  robbed,  some  of  money,  others  of  what  little 
silver  there  was,  though  I  don't  suppose  there  is  enough 
silver  in  all  New.  Joppa  to  support  a  good,  healthy  burglar 
for  more  than  a  few  days.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  that 
though  7  have  no  house,  I  came  very  near  being  robbed 
myself.25 

«  You,  Kosin  ?  " 

«  You,  Mr.  De  Arthenay  ?    Do  tell  us  ! " 

Melody  passed  her  hand  rapidly  over  the  old  man's  face, 
and  then  settled  back  with  her  former  air  of  content,  know- 
ing  that  all  was  well. 

"You  shall  hear  my  story,"  the  old  man  said,  drawing 
himself  up,  arid  giving  his  curl  a  toss.  "  It  was  the  night 
I  came  away  from  Joppa.  I  had  been  taking  tea  with 
William  Bradwell's  folks,  and  stayed  rather  late  in  the 
evening,  playing  for  the  young  folks,  singing  old  songs, 
and  one  thing  and  another.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  said 
goodrnight  and  stepped  out  of  the  house  and  along  the  road. 
'T  was  a  fine  night,  bright  moonlight,  and  everything  shin- 
ing  like  silver.  I  'd  had  a  pleasant  evening,  and  I  felt  right 
cheered  up  as  I  passed  along,  sometimes  talking  a  bit  to  the 
Lady,  and  sometimes  she  to  me  j  for  I  'd  left  her  case  at  the 
house,  seeing  I  should  pass  by  again  in  the  morning,  when 
I  took  my  way  out  of  the  place. 

"  Well,  sir,  —  I  beg  your  pardon ;  ladies,  I  should  say,  — 
as  I  came  along  a  strip  of  the  road  with  the  moon  f  uil  on  it, 

8 


34  MELODV. 

but  bordered  with  willow  scrub,  —  as  I  came  along,  sudden 
a  man  stepped  out  of  those  bushes,  and  told  me  to  stand  and 
throw  up  my  hands.  —  Don't  be  frightened,  Melody,"  for 
the  child  had  taken  his  hand  with  a  quick,  frightened 
motion ;  "  have  no  fear  at  all !  I  had  none.  I  saw,  or  felt, 
perhaps  it  was,  that  he  had  no  pistols ;  that  he  was  only  a 
poor  sneak  and  bully.  So  I  said,  '  Stand  yourself  ! '  I 
stepped  clear  out,  so  that  the  light  fell  full  on  my  face,  and 
I  looked  him  in  the  eye,  and  pointed  my  bow  at  him.  '  My 
name  is  De  Arthenay,'  I  said.  '  I  am  of  French  extraction, 
but  I  hail  from  the  Androscoggin.  I  am  known  in  this 
country.  This  is  my  fiddle-bow;  and  if  you  are  not  gone 
before  I  can  count  three,  I  '11  shoot  you  with  it.  One ! '  I  said ; 
but  I  did  n't  need  to  count  further.  He  turned  and  ran,  as 
if  the  —  as  if  a  regiment  was  after  him  ;  and  as  soon  as  I 
had  done  laughing,  I  went  on  my  way  to  the  tavern." 

All  laughed  heartily  at  the  old  man's  story ;  but  when 
the  laughter  subsided,  Melody  begged  him  to  take  "  the 
Lady,"  and  play  for  her.  "  I  have  not  heard  you  play  for 
so  long,  Rosin,  except  just  when  you  called  me." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  De  Arthenay,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  "  do  play  a 
little  for  us,  while  I  get  supper.  Suppose  I  bring  the 
table  out  here,  Melody ;  how  would  you  like  that? " 

"  Oh,  so  much  !  "  cried  the  child,  clapping  her  hands.  "  So 
very  much !  Let  me  help ! " 

She  started  up ;  and  while  the  fiddler  played,  old  sweet 
melodies,  such  as  Miss  Rejoice  loved,  there  was  a  pleasant, 
subdued  bustle  of  coming  and  going,  clinking  and  rust- 
ling, as  the  little  table  was  brought  out  and  set  in  the 
vine-wreathed  porch,  the  snowy  cloth  laid,  and  the  simple 
feast  set  forth.  There  were  wild  strawberries,  fresh  and 
glowing,  laid  on  vine-leaves ;  there  were  biscuits  so  light  it 


KOSIN  THE  BEAU.  35 

seemed  as  if  a  puff  of  wind  might  blow  them  away  ;  there 
were  twisted  doughnuts,  and  coffee  brown  and  as  clear  as  a 
mountain  brook.  It  was  a  pleasant  little  feast ;  and  the  old 
fiddler  glanced  with  cheerful  approval  over  the  table  as  he 
sat  down. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Vesta,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  the  biscuits 
gallantly  to  his  hostess,  "  there 's  no  such  table  as  this  for 
me  to  sit  down  to,  wherever  I  go,  far  or  near.  Look  at  the 
biscuit,  now,  —  moulded  snow,  I  call  them.  Take  one, 
Melody,  my  dear.  You  '11  never  get  anything  better  to  eat 
in  this  world." 

The  child  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"You're  praising  her  too  much  to  herself,"  said  Miss 
Vesta,  with  a  pleased  smile.  "  Melody  made  those  biscuit, 
all  herself,  without  any  help.  She 's  getting  to  be  such  a 
good  housekeeper,  Mr.  De  Arthenay,  you  would  not  believe 
it." 

"  You  don 't  tell  me  that  she  made  these  biscuit  I "  cried 
the  old  man.  "  Why,  Melody,  I  shall  be  frightened  at  you 
if  you  go  on  at  this  rate.  You  are  not  growing  up,  are  you, 
little  Melody  ?  " 

"  No !  no !  no !  "  cried  the  child,  vehemently.  "  I  am  not 
growing  up,  Rosin.  I  don't  want  to  grow  up,  ever,  at  all." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you  can  do  about  it,"  said 
Miss  Vesta,  smiling  grimly.  "  You  '11  have  to  stop  pretty 
short  if  you  are  not  going  to  grow  up,  Melody.  If  I  have 
let  your  dresses  down  once  this  spring,  I  've  let  them  down 
three  times.  You're  going  to  be  a  tall  woman,  I  should 
say,  and  you  've  a  right  good  start  toward  it  now." 

A  shade  stole  over  the  child's  bright  face,  and  she 
was  silent,  —  seeming  only  half  to  listen  while  the  others 
chatted,  yet  never  forgetting  to  serve  them,  and  seeming, 


36  MELODY. 

by  a  touch  on  the  hand  of  either  friend,  to  kr,ow  what  was 
wanted. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  and  the  tea-things  put  away, 
Melody  came  out  again  into  the  porch,  where  the  fiddler  sat 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the  supports, 
felt  among  the  leaves  which  hid  it.  "Here  is  the  mark!" 
she  said.  "  Am  I  really  taller,  Rosin  ?  Really  much 
taller  ?  " 

"  What  troubles  the  child  ?  "  the  old  man  asked  gently. 
"  She  does  not  want  to  grow  ?  The  bud  must  open,  Melody, 
my  dear !  the  uud  must  open !  " 

"  But  it 's  so  unreasonable,"  cried  Melody,  as  she  stood 
holding  by  the  old  man's  hand,  swaying  lightly  to  and 
fro,  as  if  the  wind  moved  her  with  the  vines  and  flowers. 
"  Why  can't  I  stay  a  little  girl  ?  A  little  girl  is  needed 
here,  is  n't  she  ?  And  there  is  no  need  at  all  of  another 
woman.  I  can't  be  like  Aunt  Vesta  or  Auntie  Joy ;  so  I 
think  I  might  stay  just  Melody."  Then  shaking  her  curls 
back,  she  cried,  "  Well,  anyhow,  I  am  just  Melody  now, 
and  nothing  more ;  and  I  mean  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
Come,  Rosin,  come !  I  am  ready  for  music.  The  dishes 
are  all  washed,  and  there  's  nothing  more  to  do,  is  there, 
Auntie  ?  It  is  so  long  since  Rosin  has  been  here ;  now  let 
us  have  a  good  time,  a  perfect  time ! " 

De  Arthenay  took  up  his  fiddle  once  more,  and  caressed 
its  shining  curves.  "  She 's  in  perfect  trim,"  he  said  ten- 
derly. "She's  fit  to  play  with  you  to-night,  Melody. 
Come,  I  am  ready ;  what  shall  we  have  ? " 

Melody  sat  down  on  the  little  green  bench  which  was  her 
own  particular  seat.  She  folded  her  hands  lightly  on  her 
lap,  and  threw  her  head  back  with  her  own  birdlike  ges- 
ture. One  would  have  said  that  she  was  calling  the  spirit  of 


ROSIN   THE  BEAU.  37 

song,  which  might  descend  on  rainbow  wings,  and  fold  her 
in  his  arms.  The  old  man  drew  the  bow  softly,  and  the 
fiddle  gave  out  a  low,  brooding  note,  —  a  note  of  invitation. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt  ? 

Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown  ? 
She  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 
And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown." 

Softly  the  old  man  played,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  child,  whose  glorious  voice  floated  out  on  the  evening 
air,  rilling  the  whole  world  with  sweetest  melody.  Miss 
Vesta  dropped  her  knitting  a.nd  folded  her  hands,  while  a 
peaceful,  dreamy  look  stole  into  her  fine  face,  —  a  face 
whose  only  fault  was  the  too  eager  look  which  a  New 
England  woman  must  so  often  gain,  whether  she  will  or  no. 
In  the  quiet  chamber,  the  bedridden  woman  lay  back  on 
her  pillows  smiling,  with  a  face  as  the  face  of  an  angel.  Her 
thoughts  were  lifted  up  on  the  wings  of  the  music,  and  borne 
—  who  shall  say  where,  to  what  high  and  holy  presence  ? 
Perhaps  —  who  can  tell  ?  —  the  eyes  of  her  soul  looked  in 
at  the  gate  of  heaven  itself ;  if  it  were  so,  be  sure  they  saw 
nothing  within  that  white  portal  more  pure  and  clear  than 
their  own  gaze. 

And  still  the  song  flowed  on.  Presently  doors  began 
to  open  along  the  village  street.  People  came  softly  out, 
came  on  tiptoe  toward  the  cottage,  and  with  a  silent  greet- 
ing to  its  owner  sat  down  beside  the  road  to  listen.  Chil- 
dren came  dancing,  with  feet  almost  as  light  as  Melody's 
own,  and  curled  themselves  up  beside  her  on  the  grass. 
Tired-looking  mothers  came,  with  their  babies  in  their 
arms ;  and  the  weary  wrinkles  faded  from  their  faces,  and 
they  listened  in  silent  content,  while  the  little  ones,  who 
perhaps  had  been  fretting  and  complaining  a  moment 


38  MELODY. 

before,  nestled  now  quietly  against  the  mother-breast,  and 
felt  that  no  one  wanted  to  tease  or  ill-ti-eat  them,  but  that 
the  world  was  all  full  of  Mother,  who  loved  them.  Beside 
one  of  these  women  a  man  came  and  sat  him  down,  as  if 
from  habit ;  but  he  did  not  look  at  her.  His  face  wore  a 
weary,  moody  frown,  and  he  stared  at  the  ground  sullenly, 
taking  no  note  of  any  one.  The  others  looked  at  one 
another  and  nodded,  and  thought  of  the  things  they  knew ; 
the  woman  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  him,  half  hopeful,  half 
fearful,  but  made  no  motion. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

And  the  master  so  kind  and  so  true  ; 
And  the  little  nook  by  the  clear  running  brook, 
Where  we  gathered  the  flowers  as  they  grew  ?  " 

The  dark-browed  man  listened,  and  thought.  Her  name 
was  Alice,  this  woman  by  his  side.  They  had  been  school- 
mates together,  had  gathered  flowers,  oh,  how  many  times, 
by  brook-side  and  hill.  They  had  grown  up  to  be  lovers, 
and  she  was  his  wife,  sitting  here  now  beside  him, — his 
wife,  with  his  baby  in  her  arras ;  and  he  had  not  spoken  to 
her  for  a  week.  What  began  it  all  ?  He  hardly  knew ; 
but  she  had  been  provoking,  and  he  had  been  tired,  impa- 
tient ;  there  had  been  a  great  scene,  and  then  this  silence, 
which  he  swore  he  would  not  break.  How  sad  she  looked ! 
he  thought,  as  he  stole  a  glance  at  the  face  bending  over 
the  child. 

*  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt, 
Sweet  Alice,  whosa  hair  was  so  brown  ?  " 

Was  she  singing  about  them,  this  child?  She  had 
sung  at  their  wedding,  a  little  thing  of  seven  years  old  > 


KOSfN  THE  BEAU.  89 

and  old  De  Arthengy  had  played,  and  wished  them  happi- 
ness, and  said  they  were  the  handsomest  couple  he  had 
played  for  that  year.  Now  she  looked  so  tired :  how  was  it 
that  he  had  never  seen  how  tired  she  looked  ?  Perhaps  she 
was  only  sick  or  nervous  that  day  when  she  spoke  so.  The 
child  stirred  in  its  mother's  arms,  and  she  gave  a  low  sigh 
of  weariness,  and  shifted  the  weight  to  the  other  arm. 
The  young  man  bent  forward  and  took  the  baby,  and  felt 
how  heavy  it  had  grown  since  last  he  held  it.  He  had  not 
said  anything,  he  would  not  say  anything  —  just  yet;  but 
his  wife  turned  to  him  with  such  a  smile,  such  a  flash  of 
love  and  joy,  imploring,  promising,  that  his  heart  leaped, 
and  then  beat  peacefully,  happily,  as  it  had  not  beaten  for 
many  days.  All  was  over ;  and  Alice  leaned  against  his 
arm  with  a  little  movement  of  content,  and  the  good  neigh- 
bors looked  at  one  another  again,  and  smiled  this  time  to 
know  that  all  was  well. 

What  is  the  song  now  ?  The  blind  child  turns  slightly, 
so  that  she  faces  Miss  Vesta  Dale,  whose  favorite  song 
this  is, — 

"All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  were  a-swellin', 
Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay, 
For  love  of  Barbara  Allan." 

Why  is  Miss  Vesta  so  fond  of  the  grim  old  ballad? 
Perhaps  she  could  hardly  tell,  if  she  would.  She  looks 
very  stately  as  she  leans  against  the  wall,  close  by  the 
room  where  her  sister  Rejoice  is  lying.  Does  a  thought 
come  to  her  mind  of  the  youth  who  loved  her  so,  or 
thought  he  loved  her, 'long  and  long  ago?  Does  she  see 
his  look  of  dismay,  of  incredulous  anger,  when  she  told 


40  MELODY. 

him  that  her  life  must  be  given  to  her  crippled  sister,  and 
that  if  he  would  share  it  he  must  take  Rejoice  too,  to  love 
And  to  cherish  as  dearly  as  he  would  cherish  her  ?  He 
could  not  bear  the  test;  he  was  a  good  young  fellow 
enough,  but  there  was  nothing  of  the  hero  about  him,  and 
he  thought  that  crippled  folk  should  be  taken  care  of  in 
hospitals,  where  they  belonged. 

"  '  Oh,  diuna  ye  mind,  young  man,'  she  said, 

*  When  the  red  wine  was  a-fillin', 
Ye  bade  the  healths  gae  round  an"  round, 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allan  ?  ' " 

If  the  cruel  Barbara  had  not  repented,  and  "  laid  her  down 
in  sorrow,"  she  might  well  have  grown  to  look  like  this 
handsome,  white-haired  woman,  with  her  keen  blue  eyes 
and  queenly  bearing. 

Miss  Vesta  had  never  for  an  instant  regretted  the  dispo- 
sition of  her  life,  never  even  in  the  shadow  of  a  thought ; 
but  this  was  the  song  she  used  to  sing  in  those  old  days, 
and  somehow  she  always  felt  a  thrill  (was  it  of  pleasure  or 
pain  ?  she  could  not  have  told  you)  when  the  child  sang  it. 

But  there  may  have  been  a  "call,"  as  Eosin  the  Beau 
would  have  said,  for  some  one  else  beside  Vesta  Dale; 
for  a  tall,  pale  girl,  who  has  been  leaning  against  the  wall 
pulling  off  the  gray  lichens  as  she  listened,  now  slips  away, 
and  goes  home  and  writes  a  letter ;  and  to-morrow  morning, 
when  the  mail  goes  to  the  next  village,  two  people  will  be 
happy  in  God's  world  instead  of  being  miserable. 

And  now?  Oh,  now  it  is  a  merry  song;  for,  after  all, 
Melody  is  a  child,  and  a  happy  child ;  and  though  she  loves 
the  sad  songs  dearly,  still  she  generally  likes  to  end  up 
with  a  "  dancy  one." 


ROSIN  THE  BEAU.  41 

" '  Come  boat  me  o'er, 
Come  row  me  o'er, 
Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie ; 
I  '11  gi'e  John  Hosa  auither  bawbee 
To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 
We  '11  o'er  the  water  au"  o'er  the  sea, 
We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie, 
Come  weal,  come  woe,  we  '11  gather  arid  go, 
And  live  and  die  wi'  Charlie.' " 

And  now  Kosiu  the  Beau  proves  the  good  right  he  has  to 
his  name.  Trill  and  quavers  and  roulades  are  shaken 
from  his  bow  as  lightly  as  foam  from  the  prow  of  a  ship* 
The  music  leaps  rollicking  up  and  down,  here  and  there, 
till  the  air  is  all  a-quiver  with  merriment.  The  old  man 
draws  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  all  save  that  loving 
bend  of  the  head  over  the  beloved  instrument.  His  long 
slender  foot,  in  its  quaint  "  Congress  "  shoe,  beats  time  like 
a  mill-clapper,  —  tap,  tap,  tap;  his  snowy  curl  dances  over 
his  forehead,  his  brown  eyes  twinkle  with  pride  and  pleas- 
ure. Other  feet  beside  his  began  to  pat  the  ground ;  heads 
were  lifted,  eyes  looked  invitation  and  response.  At  length 
the  child  Melody,  with  one  superb  outburst  of  song,  lifted 
her  hands  above  her  head,  and  springing  out  into  the  road 
cried,  "  A  dance  !  a  dance  1 " 

Instantly  the  quiet  road  was  alive  with  dancers.  Old 
and  young  sprang  to  their  feet  in  joyful  response.  The 
fiddle  struck  into  "  The  Irish  Washerwoman,"  and  the  peo- 
ple danced.  Children  joined  hands  and  jumped  up  and 
down,  knowing  no  steps  save  Nature's  leaps  of  joy ;  youths 
and  maidens  flew  in  graceful  measures  together ;  last,  but 
not  least,  old  Simon  Parker  the  postmaster  seized  Mrs. 
Martha  Penny  by  both  hands,  and  regardless  of  her  breath- 
less shrieks  whirled  her  round  and  round  till  the  poor  old 


42  MELODY. 

dame  had  no  breath  left  to  scream  with.  Alone  in  the 
midst  of  the  gay  throng  (as  strange  a  one,  surely,  as  evez 
disturbed  the  quiet  of  a  New  England  country  road)  danced 
the  blind  child,  a  figure  of  perfect  grace.  Who  taught 
Melody  to  dance?  Surely  it  was  the  wind,  the  swaying 
birch-tree,  the  slender  grasses  that  nod  and  wave  by  the 
brookside.  Light  as  air  she  floated  in  and  out  among  the 
motley  groups,  never  jostling  or  touching  any  one.  Her 
slender  arms  waved  in  time  to  the  music;  her  beautiful 
hair  floated  over  her  shoulders.  Her  whole  face  glowed 
with  light  and  joy,  while  only  her  eyes,  steadfast  and 
unchanging,  struck  the  one  grave  note  in  the  symphony  of 
joy  and  merriment. 

From  time  to  time  the  old  fiddler  stole  a  glance  at  Miss 
Vesta  Dale,  as  she  sat  erect  and  stately,  leaning  against  the 
wall  of  the  house.  She  was  beginning  to  grow  uneasy, 
rfer  foot  also  began  to  pat  the  ground.  She  moved 
slightly,  swayed  on  her  seat ;  her  fingers  beat  time,  as  did 
the  slender,  well-shaped  foot  which  peeped  from  under 
her  scant  blue  skirt.  Suddenly  De  Arthenay  stopped 
short,  and  tapped  sharply  on  his  fiddle,  while  the  dancers, 
breathless  and  exhausted,  fell  back  by  the  roadside  again. 
Stepping  out  from  the  porch,  he  made  a  low  bow  to  Miss 
Vesta.  '  "  Chorus  Jig ! "  he  cried,  and  struck  up  the  air  of 
that  time-honored  dance.  Miss  Vesta  frowned,  shook  her 
head  resolutely,  —  rose,  and  standing  opposite  the  old 
fiddler,  began  to  dance. 

Here  was  a  new  marvel,  no  less  strange  in  its  way  than 
Melody's  wild  grace  of  movement,  or  the  sudden  madness 
of  the  village  crowd.  The  stately  white-haired  woman 
moved  slowly  forward;  the  old  man  bowed  again;  she 
courtesied  as  became  a  duchess  of  Nature's  own  making. 


tiOSIN  THE  BEAU.  43 

Their  bodies  erect  and  motionless,  their  heads  held  high, 
their  feet  went  twinkling  through  a  series  of  evolutions 
which  the  keenest  eye  could  hardly  follow.  "Pigeon- 
wings  ? "  Whole  flocks  of  pigeons  took  flight  from  under 
that  scant  blue  skirt,  from  those  wonderful  shrunken 
trousers  of  yellow  nankeen.  They  moved  forward,  back, 
forward  again,  as  smoothly  as  a  wave  glides  up  the  shore. 
They  twinkled  round  and  round  each  other,  now  back  to 
back,  now  face  to  face.  They  chassed  into  corners,  and 
displayed  a  whirlwind  of  delicately  pointed  toes;  they 
retired  as  if  to  quarrel ;  they  floated  back  to  make  it  up 
again.  All  the  while  not  a  muscle  of  their  faces  moved, 
not  a  gleam  of  fun  disturbed  the  tranquil  sternness  of  their 
Jook ;  for  dancing  was  a  serious  business  thirty  years  ago, 
when  they  were  young,  and  they  had  no  idea  of  lowering 
its  dignity  by  any  "  quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles," 
such  as  young  folks  nowadays  indulge  in.  Briefly,  it  was  a 
work  of  art;  and  when  it  was  over,  and  the  sweeping 
courtesy  and  splendid  bow  had  restored  the  old-time 
dancers  to  their  places,  a  shout  of  applause  went  up,  and 
the  air  rang  with  such  a  tumult  as  had  never  before, 
perhaps,  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  the  country  road. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN    THE    CHURCHYARD. 

CD'S  ACRE !  A  New  England  burying-ground,  - 
who  does  not  know  the  aspect  of  the  place  ?  A 
savage  plot  of  ground,  where  nothing  else  would  grow  save 
this  crop  of  gray  stones,  and  other  gray  stones  formless  and 
grim,  thrusting  their  rugged  faces  out  here  and  there 
through  the  scanty  soil.  Other  stones,  again,  enclosing  the 
whole  with  a  grim,  protecting  arm,  a  ragged  wall,  all 
jagged,  formless,  rough.  The  grass  is  long  and  yet  sparse  f* 
here  and  there  a  few  flowers  cling,  hardy  geraniums, 
lychnis,  and  the  like,  but  they  seem  strangely  out  of  place. 
The  stones  are  fallen  awry,  and  lean  toward  each  other  as 
if  they  exchanged  confidences,  and  speculated  on  the  prob- 
able spiritual  whereabouts  of  the  souls  whose  former  bodies 
they  guard.  Most  of  these  stones  are  gray  slate,  carved 
with  old-fashioned  letters,  round  and  long-tailed ;  but  there 
are  a  few  slabs  of  white  marble,  and  in  one  corner  is  a  mar- 
ble lamb,  looking  singularly  like  the  woolly  lambs  one  buys1 
for  children,  standing  stiff  and  solemn  on  his  four  straight 
legs.  This  is  not  the  "  cemetery,"  be  it  understood.  That 
is  close  by  the  village,  and  is  the  favorite  walk  and  place 
of  Sunday  resort  for  it<*  inhabitants.  It  is  trim  and  well- 
kept,  with  gravel  paths  and  flower-beds,  and  store  of  urns 
and  images  in  "white  bronze,"  for  the  people  are  proud 
of  their  cemetery,  as  well-regulated  New  England  people 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.  45 

should  be,  and  there  is  a  proper  feeling  of  rivalry  in  the 
matter  of  "moniments." 

But  Melody  cares  nothing  whatever  about  the  fine  ceme- 
tery. It  is  in  the  old  "  berrin'-groun' "  that  her  mother 
lies,  —  indeed,  she  was  the  last  person  buried  in  it ;  and  it 
is  here  that  the  child  loves  to  linger  and  dream  the  sweet, 
sad,  purposeless  dreams  of  childhood.  She  knows  nothing 
of  "  Old  Mortality,"  yet  she  is  his  childish  imitator  in  this 
lonely  spot.  She  keeps  the  weeds  in  some  sort  of  subjec- 
tion ;  she  pulls  away  the  moss  and  lichens  from  head  and 
foot  stones,  —  not  so  much  with  any  idea  of  reverence  as 
that  she  likes  to  read  the  inscriptions,  and  feel  the  quaint 
flourishes  and  curlicues  of  the  older  gravestones.  She  has 
a  sense  of  personal  acquaintance  with  all  the  dwellers  on 
this  hillside ;  talks  to  them  and  sings  to  them  in  her  happy 
fashion,  as  she  pulls  away  the  witch-grass  and  sorrel.  See 
her  now,  sitting  on  that  low  green  mound,  her  white  dress 
gleaming  against  the  dusky  gray  of  the  stone  on  which  she 
leans.  Melody  is  very  fond  of  white.  It  feels  smoother 
than  colors,  she  always  says ;  and  she  would  wear  it  con- 
stantly if  it  did  not  make  too  much  washing.  One  arm 
is  thrown  over  the  curve  of  the  headstone,  while  with  the 
other  hand  she  follows  the  worn  letters  of  the  inscription, 
which  surely  no  other  fingers  were  fine  enough  to  trace. 

SACRED   TO   THE    MEMORY   OF 

SUSAN  DYER. 

TRUE    TO   HER    NAME, 

She  died  Aug.  10th,  1814, 
In  the  19th  year  of  her  age. 

The  soul  of  my  Susan  is  gone 

To  heighten  the  triumphs  above  ; 
Exalted  to  Jesus'  s  throne 

And  clasped  in  the  arms  of  his  love. 


46  MELODY. 

Melody  read  the  words  aloud,  smiling  as  she  read. 
"  Susan,"  she  said,  "  I  wonder  who  wrote  your  verses.  1 
wonder  if  you  were  pretty,  dear,  and  if  you  liked  to  be  alive, 
and  were  sorry  to  be  dead.  But  you  must  be  used  to  it  by 
this  time,  anyhow.  I  wonder  if  you  '  shout  redeeming  love,' 
like  your  cousin  (I  suppose  she  is  your  cousin)  Sophia  Dyer, 
over  in  the  corner  there.  I  never  liked  Sophia,  Susan  dear. 
I  seem  to  think  she  shouted  here  too,  and  snubbed  you, 
because  you  were  gentle  and  shy.  See  how  her  stone  perks 
up,  making  every  inch  it  can  of  itself,  while  yours  tries  to 
sink  away  and  hide  itself  in  the  good  green  grass.  I  think  we 
liked  the  same  things  a  good  deal,  Susan,  don't  you  ?  And 
I  think  you  would  like  me  to  go  and  see  the  old  gentleman 
now,  because  he  has  so  many  dandelions  ;  and  I  really  must 
pull  them  up.  You  know  I  am  never  sure  that  he  is  n't 
your  grandfather.  So  many  of  you  are  related  here,  it  is  a 
regular  family  party.  Good-by,  Susan  dear." 

She  bent  over,  and  touched  the  stone  lightly  with  her  lips, 
then  passed  on  to  another  which  was  half  buried  in  the  earth, 
the  last  letters  of  the  inscription  being  barely  discernible. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Bascom  ?  "  said  this  singular  child, 
laying  her  hand  respectfully  on  the  venerable  headstone. 
"Are  your  dandelions  very  troublesome  this  morning, 
dear  sir  ?  " 

Her  light  fingers  hovered  over  the  mound  like  butter- 
flies, and  she  began  pulling  up  the  dandelion  roots,  and 
smoothing  down  the  grass  over  the  bare  places.  Then  she 
fell  to  work  on  the  inscription,  which  was  an  elaborate 
one,  surmounted  by  two  cherubs'  heads,  one  resting  on 
an  hour-glass,  the  other  on  a  pair  of  cross-bones.  Along 
every  line  she  passed  her  delicate  fingers,  not  because  she 
did  not  know  every  line,  but  that  she  might  trace  any 
new  growth  of  moss  or  lichen. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.  47 

"  Farewell  this  flesh,  these  ears,  these  eyes, 

Those  snares  and  fetters  of  the  mind. 
My  God,  nor  let  this  fraim  arise 
Till  every  dust  be  well  refined." 

"  You  were  very  particular,  Mr.  Bascom,  were  n't  you  ?  ' 
inquired  Melody.  "  You  were  a  very  neat  old  gentleman, 
with  white  hair  always  brushed  just  so,  and  a  high  collar. 
You  did  n  't  like  dust,  unless  it  was  well  refined.  I 
should  n 't  wonder  if  you  washed  your  walking-stick  every 
time  you  came  home,  like  Mr.  Cuter,  over  at  the  Corners. 
Here 's  something  growing  in  the  tail  of  your  last  y. 
Never  mind,  Mr.  Bascom,  I  '11  get  it  out  with  a  pin.  There, 
now  you  are  quite  respectable,  and  you  look  very  nice 
indeed.  Good-by,  and  do  try  not  to  fret  more  than  you  can 
help  about  the  dandelions.  They  will  grow,  no  matter  how 
often  I  come." 

Melody,  in  common  with  most  blind  persons,  always 
spoke  of  seeing,  of  looking  at  things,  precisely  as  if  she  had 
the  full  use  of  her  eyes.  Indeed,  I  question  whether  those 
wonderful  fingers  of  hers  were  not  as  good  as  many  pairs  of 
eyes  we  see.  How  many  people  go  half-blind  through  the 
world,  just  for  want  of  the  habit  of  looking  at  things  ! 
How  many  plod  onward,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
when  they  might  be  raised  to  the  skies,  seeing  the  glory 
of  the  Lord,  which  He  has  spread  abroad  over  hill  and 
meadow,  for  all  eyes  to  behold  !  How  many  walk  with 
introverted  gaze,  seeing  only  themselves,  while  their 
neighbor  walks  beside  them,  unseen,  and  needing  their 
ministration ! 

The  blind  child  touched  life  with  her  hand,  and  knew  it. 
Every  leaf  was  her  acquaintance,  every  flower  her  friend 
and  gossip.  She  knew  every  tree  of  the  forest  by  its  bark ; 


48  MELODY. 

knew  when  it  blossomed,  and  how.  More  than  this,  —  some 
subtle  sense  for  which  we  have  no  name  gave  her  the  power 
of  reading  with  a  touch  the  mood  and  humor  of  those  she 
was  with ;  and  when  her  hand  rested  in  that  of  a  friend,  she 
knew  whether  the  friend  were  glad  or  gay,  before  hearing 
the  sound  of  his  voice. 

Another  power  she  had,  —  that  of  attracting  to  her  "  all 
creatures  living  beneath  the  sun,  that  creep  or  swim  or  fly 
or  run."  Not  a  cat  or  dog  in  the  village  but  would  leave 
his  own  master  or  mistress  at  a  single  call  from  Melody. 
She  could  imitate  every  bird-call  with  her  wonderful  voice ; 
and  one  day  she  had  come  home  and  told  Miss  Rejoice 
quietly  that  she  had  been  making  a  concert  with  a  wood- 
thrush,  and  that  the  red  squirrels  had  sat  on  the  branches  to 
listen.  Miss  Vesta  said,  "  Nonsense,  child !  you  fell  asleep, 
and  had  a  pretty  dream."  But  Miss  Rejoice  believed  every 
word,  and  Melody  knew  she  did  by  the  touch  of  her  thin, 
kind  old  hand. 

It  might  well  have  been  true ;  for  now,  as  the  child  sat 
down  beside  a  small  white  stone,  which  evidently  marked 
a  child's  grave,  she  gave  a  low  call,  and  in  a  moment  a  gray 
squirrel  came  running  from  the  stone  wall  (he  had  been  sit- 
ting there,  watching  her  with  his  bright  black  eyes,  looking 
so  like  a  bit  of  the  wall  itself  that  the  sharpest  eyes  would 
hardly  have  noticed  him),  and  leaped  into  her  lap. 

"  Brother  Gray-frock,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  cried  the  child, 
joyously,  caressing  the  pretty  creature  with  light  touches. 
"  I  wondered  if  I  should  see  you  to-day,  brother.  The  last 
time  I  came  you  were  off  hunting  somewhere,  and  I  called 
and  called,  but  no  gray  brother  came.  How  is  the  wife,  and 
the  children,  and  how  is  the  stout  young  man  ?  " 

The  "  stout  young  man  "  lay  buried  at  the  farther  end  of 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.  49 

the  ground,  under  the  tree  in  which  the  squirrel  lived.  The 
inscription  on  his  tombstone  was  a  perpetual  amusement 
to  Melody,  and  she  could  not  help  feeling  as  if  the  squirrel 
must  know  that  it  was  funny  too,  though  they  had  never 
exchanged  remarks  about  it  This  was  the  inscription : 

"  I  was  a  stout  young  man 
As  you  would  find  in  ten  ; 
And  when  on  this  I  think, 
I  take  in  hand  my  pen 
Antfwrite  it  plainly  out, 
That  all  the  world  may  see 
How  I  was  cut  down  like 
A  blossom  from  a  tree. 
The  Lord  rest  my  soul." 

The  young  man's  name  was  Faithful  Parker.  Melody 
liked  him  well  enough,  though  she  never  felt  intimate  with 
him,  as  she  did  with  Susan  Dyer  and  the  dear  child  Love 
Good,  who  slept  beneath  this  low  white  stone.  This  was 
Melody's  favorite  grave.  It  was  such  a  dear  quaint  little 
name,  —  Love  Good.  "  Good  "  had  been  a  common  name 
in  the  village  seventy  years  ago,  when  this  little  Love  lived 
and  died ;  many  graves  bore  the  name,  though  no  living 
person  now  claimed  it. 

LOVE  GOOD, 

FOCR    YEARS   OLD. 

Our  white  rose  withered  in  the  bud. 

This  was  all ;  and  somehow  Melody  felt  that  she  knew  and 

cared  for  these  parents  much  more  than  for  those  who  put 

their  sorrow  into  rhyme,  and  mourned  in  despairing  doggerel. 

Melody  laid  her  soft  warm  cheek  against  the  little  white 

4 


50  MELODY. 

stone,  and  murmured  loving  words  to  it.  The  squirrel  sat 
still  in  her  lap,  content  to  nestle  urder  her  hand,  and  bask 
in  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  summer  day  :  the  sunlight 
streamed  with  tempered  glow  through  the  branches  of  an  old 
cedar  that  grew  beside  the  little  grave ;  peace  and  silence 
brooded  like  a  dove  over  the  holy  place. 

A  flutter  of  wings,  a  rustle  of  leaves,  —  was  it  a  fairy 
alighting  on  the  old  cedar-tree  ?  No,  only  an  oriole ; 
though  some  have  said  that  this  bird  is  a  fairy  prince  in 
disguise,  and  that  if  he  can  win  the  love  of  a  pure  maiden 
the  spell  will  be  loosed,  and  he  will  regain  his  own  form. 
This  cannot  be  true,  however;  for  Melody  knows  Golden 
Robin  well,  and  loves  him  well,  and  he  loves  her  in  his 
own  way,  yet  has  never  changed  a  feather  at  sight  of  her. 
He  will  sing  for  her,  though;  and  sing  he  does,  shaking 
and  trilling  and  quivering,  pouring  his  little  soul  out  in 
melody  for  joy  of  the  summer  day,  and  of  the  sweet,  quiet 
place,  and  of  the  child  who  never  scares  or  startles  him, 
only  smiles,  and  sings  to  him  in  return.  They  are  singing 
together  now,  the  child  and  the  bird.  It  is  a  very  wonder- 
ful thing,  if  there  were  any  one  by  to  hear.  The  gray 
squirrel  crouches  motionless  in  the  child's  lap,  with  half- 
shut  eyes;  the  quiet  dead  sleep  on  unmoved:  who  else 
should  be  near  to  listen  to  such  music  as  this  ? 

Nay,  but  who  is  this,  leaning  over  the  old  stone-wall, 
listening  with  keenest  interest, — this  man  with  the  dark, 
eager  face  and  bold  black  eyes  ?  His  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
child ;  his  face  is  aglow  with  wonder  and  delight,  but  with 
something  else  too,  —  some  passion  which  strikes  a  jarring 
note  through  the  harmony  of  the  summer  idyl.  What  is 
this  man  doing  here  ?  Why  does  he  eye  the  blind  child  so 
strangely,  with  looks  of  power,  almost  of  possession  ? 


IN  THE  CUURCHYARD  51 

Cease,  cease  youi  song,  Melody  I  Fly,  bird  and  tiny 
beast,  to  your  shelter  in  the  dark  tree-tops;  and  fly  you 
also,  gentlest  child,  to  the  home  where  is  love  and  protec- 
tion and  tender  care  !  For  the  charm  is  broken,  and  youi 
paradise  is  invaded. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE    SERPENT. 

"  TDIJT  I'm  sure  you  will  listen  to  reason,  ma'am.** 

•*-^  The  stranger  spoke  in  a  low,  persuasive  tone ;  his 
eyes  glanced  rapidly  hither  and  thither  as  he  spoke,  taking 
the  bearings  of  house  and  garden,  noting  the-  turn  of  the 
road,  the  distance  of  the  neighboring  houses.  One  would 
have  said  he  was  a  surveyor,  _nly  he  had  no  instruments 
with  him. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  listen  to  reason,  —  a  fine,  intelligent 
lady  like  yourself.  Think  of  it :  there  is  a  fortune  in  this 
child's  voice.  There  has  n't  been  such  a  voice  —  there  's 
never  been  such  a  voice  in  this  country,  I  '11  be  bold  to 
say.  I  know  something  about  voices,  ma'am.  I've  been 
in  the  concert  business  twenty  years,  and  I  do  assure  you  I 
have  naver  heard  such  a  natural  voice  as  this  child  has.  She 
has  a  great  career  before  her,  I  tell  you.  Money,  ma'am ! 
there  's  thousands  in  that  voice !  It  sings  bank-notes  and 
gold-pieces,  every  note  of  it.  You  '11  be  a  rich  woman, 
and  she  will  be  a  great  singer,  —  one  of  the  very  greatest. 
Her  being  blind  makes  it  all  the  better.  I  wouldn't  have 
her  like  other  people,  not  for  anything.  The  blind  priina- 
donna,  —  my  stars !  would  n't  it  draw  ?  I  see  the  posters 
now.  '  Nature's  greatest  marvel,  the  blind  singer  I  Splen- 
did talent  enveloped  in  darkness.'  She  will  be  the  success 
of  the  day,  ma'am.  Lord,  and  to  think  of  my  chancing  on 


THE  SERPENT.  53 

her  here,  of  all  the  little  out-of-the-way  places  in  the  world! 
Why,  three  hours  ago  I  was  cursing  my  luck,  when  my 
horse  lost  a  shoe  and  went  lame,  just  outside  your  pleasant 
little  town  here.  And  now,  ma'am,  now  I  count  this  the 
most  fortunate  day  of  my  life  !  Is  the  little  lady  in  the 
house,  ma'am  ?  I  'd  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her ; 
kind  o'  open  her  eyes  to  what 's  before  her,  —  her  mind's 
eye,  Horatio,  eh  ?  Know  anything  of  Shakspeare,  ma'am  ? 
Is  she  in  the  house,  I  say  ?  " 

"  She  is  not,"  said  Miss  Vesta  Dale,  finding  her  voice  at 
last.  "  The  child  is  away,  and  you  should  not  see  her  if 
she  were  here.  She  is  not  meant  for  the  sort  of  thing  you 
talk  about.  She  —  she  is  the  same  as  our  own  child,  my 
sister's  and  mine.  We  mean  to  keep  her  by  us  as  long  as 
we  live.  I  thank  you,"  she  added,  with  stately  courtesy. 
"  I  don't  doubt  that  many  might  be  glad  of  such  a  chance, 
but  we  are  not  that  kind,  my  sister  and  I." 

The  man's  face  fell ;  but  the  next  moment  he  looked  in- 
credulous. "  You  don't  mean  what  you  say,  ma'am ! "  he 
cried ;  "  you  can't  mean  it !  To  keep  a  voice  like  that  shut 
up  in  a  God-forsaken  little  hole  like  this,  —  oh,  you  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about,  really  you  don't!  And 
think  of  the  advantage  to  the  child  herself  ! "  He  saw  the 
woman's  face  change  at  this,  saw  that  he  had  made  a  point, 
and  hastened  to  pursue  it.  "  What  can  the  child  have,  if 
she  spends  her  life  here?  No  education,  no  pleasure, — 
nothing.  Nice  little  place,  no  doubt,  for  those  that  are 
used  to  it,  but  —  Lord !  a  child  that  has  the  whole  world 
before  her,  to  pick  and  choose !  She  must  go  to  Europe, 
ma'am !  She  will  sing  before  crowned  heads ;  go  to  Russia, 
and  be  decorated  by  the  Czar.  She  '11  have  horses  and  car- 
riages, jewels,  dresses  finer  than  any  queen  1  Patti  spends 


64  MELODY. 

three  fortunes  a  year  on  her  clothes,  and  this  girl  has  as 
good  a  voice  as  Patti,  any  day.     Why,  you  have  to  support 
her,  don't  you  ?  —  and  hard  work,  too,  sometimes,  perhap 
—  her  and  maybe  others  ?  " 

Miss  Vesta  winced ;  and  he  saw  it.  Oh,  Rejoice !  it  was 
a  joy  to  save  and  spare,  to  deny  herself  any  little  luxury, 
that  the  beloved  sister  might  have  everything  she  fancied. 
But  did  she  have  everything  ?  Was  it,  could  it  be  possible 
that  this  should  be  done  for  her  sister's  sake  ? 

The  man  pursued  his  advantage  relentlessly.  "  You  are 
a  fine  woman,  ma'am,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so, — a 
remarkably  fine  woman.  But  you  are  getting  on  in  life, 
as  we  all  are.  This  child  will  support  you,  ma'am,  instead 
of  your  supporting  her.  Support  you,  do  I  say  ?  Why, 
you  '11  bo  rolling  in  wealth  in  a  few  years  !  You  spoke  of 
a  sister,  ma'am.  Is  she  in  good  health,  may  I  ask  ?  "  His 
quick  eye  had  spied  the  white-curtained  bed  through  the 
vine-clad  window,  and  his  ear  had  caught  the  tender  tone 
of  her  voice  when  she  said,  "  my  sister." 

"  My  sister  is  an  invalid,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  coldly. 

"Another  point ! "  exclaimed  the  impresario.  "  You  will 
he  able  to  have  every  luxury  for  your  sister,  —  wines,  fruits, 
travelling,  the  best  medical  aid  the  country  affords.  You 
are  the  —  a  —  the  steward,  I  may  say,  ma'am,"  —  with 
subtle  intuition,  the  man  assumed  a  tone  of  moral  loftiness, 
as  if  calling  Miss  Vesta  to  account  for  all  delinquencies, 
past  and  future,  —  "  the  steward,  or  even  the  stewardess,  of 
this  great  treasure.  It  means  everything  for  you  and  her, 
and  for  your  invalid  sister  as  well.  Think  of  it,  think  of 
it  well !  I  am  so  confident  of  your  answer  that  I  can  well 
afford  to  wait  a  little.  Take  a  few  minutes,  ma'am,  and 
think  it  over." 


THE  SERPENT  55 

fie  leaned  against  the  house  in  an  easy  attitude,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  mouth  pursed  up  for  a  whistle. 
He  did  not  feel  as  confident  as  he  looked,  perhaps,  but 
Miss  Vesta  did  not  know  that.  She  also  leaned  against 
the  house,  her  head  resting  among  the  vines  that  screened 
Miss  llejoice's  window,  and  thought  intensely.  What  was 
right  ?  What  should  she  do  ?  Half  an  hour  ago  life  lay 
so  clear  and  plain  before  her;  the  line  of  happy  duties, 
simple  pleasures,  was  so  straight,  leading  from  the  cottage 
door  to  that  quiet  spot  in  the  old  burying-ground  where 
she  and  Rejoice  would  one  day  rest  side  by  side.  They 
had  taught  Melody  what  they  could.  She  had  books  in 
v;tisi-d  print,  sent  regularly  from  the  institution  where  she 
had  learned  to  read  and  write.  She  was  happy ;  no  child 
could  ever  have  been  happier,  Miss  Vesta  thought,  if  she 
had  had  three  pairs  of  eyes.  She  was  the  heart  of  the 
village,  its  pride,  its  wonder.  They  had  looked  forward 
L,o  a  life  of  simple  usefulness  and  kindliness  for  her,  tend- 
'.ng  the  sick  with  that  marvellous  skill  which  seemed  a 
special  gift  from  Heaven;  cheering,  comforting,  delighting 
old  and  young,  by  the  magic  of  her  voice  and  the  gentle 
spell  of  her  looks  and  ways.  A  quiet  life,  a  simple,  hum- 
drum life,  it  might  be:  they  had  never  thought  of  that. 
But  now,  what  picture  was  this  that  the  stranger  had  con- 
jured up? 

As  in  a  glass,  Miss  Vesta  seemed  to  see  the  whole  thing. 
Melody  a  woman,  a  great  singer,  courted,  caressed,  living 
like  a  queen,  with  everything  rich  and  beautiful  about  her ; 
jewels  in  her  shining  hair,  splendid  dresses,  furs  and  laces, 
such  as  even  elderly  country  women  love  to  dream  about 
sometimes.  She  saw  this ;  and  she  saw  something  else 
besides.  The  walls  of  the  little  room  within  seemed  to 


66  MELODY. 

part,  to  extend ;  it  was  no  longer  a  tiny  whitewashed  closet, 
but  stretched  wide  and  long,  rose  lofty  and  airy.  There 
were  couches,  wheeled  chairs,  great  sunny  windows,  through 
which  one  looked  out  over  lovely  gardens ;  there  were  pic- 
tures, the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  for  those  dear  eyes 
to  rest  on ;  banks  of  flowers,  costly  ornaments,  everything 
that  luxury  could  devise  or  heart  desire.  And  on  one  of 
these  splendid  couches  (oh,  she  could  move  as  she  pleased 
from  one  to  the  other,  instead  of  lying  always  in  the  one 
narrow  white  bed ! ),  —  on  one  of  them  lay  her  sister 
Rejoice,  in  a  lace  wrapper,  such  as  Miss  Vesta  had  read 
about  once  in  a  fashion  magazine ;  all  lace,  creamy  and 
soft,  with  delicate  ribbons  here  and  there.  There  she 
lay ;  and  yet  —  was  it  she  ?  Miss  Vesta  tried  hard  to  give 
life  to  this  image,  to  make  it  smile  with  her  sister's  eyes, 
and  speak  with  her  sister's  voice ;  but  it  had  a  strange, 
shadowy  look  all  the  time,  and  whenever  she  forced  the 
likeness  of  Rejoice  into  her  mind,  somehow  it  came  with 
the  old  surroundings,  the  little  white  bed,  the  yellow-washed 
walls,  the  old  green  flag-bottomed  chair  on  which  the  medi- 
cine-cups always  stood.  But  all  the  other  things  might 
be  hers,  just  by  Melody's  singing.  By  Melody's  singing ! 
Miss  Vesta  stood  very  still,  her  faoe  quiet  and  stern,  as  it 
always  was  in  thought,  no  sign  of  the  struggle  going  on 
within.  The  stranger  was  very  still  too,  biding  his  time, 
stealing  an  occasional  glance  at  her  face,  feeling  tolerably 
sure  of  success,  yet  wishing  she  had  not  quite  such  a  set 
look,  about  the  mouth. 

All  by  Melody's  singing !  No  effort,  no  exertion  for  the 
child,  only  the  thing  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  —  the 
thing  she  did  every  day  and  all  day.  And  all  for  Rejoice, 
for  Rejoice,  whom  Melody  loved  so  j  for  whom  the  child 


THE  SERPENT.  57 

would  count  any  toil,  any  privation,  merely  an  added  pleas- 
ure, even  as  Vesta  herself  would.  Miss  Vesta  held  her 
breath,  and  prayed.  Would  not  God  answer  for  her  ?  She 
was  only  a  woman,  and  very  weak,  though  she  had  never 
guessed  it  till  now.  God  knew  what  the  right  thing  was : 
would  He  not  speak  for  her  ? 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  Melody  coming  down  the  road, 
leading  a  child  in  each  hand.  She  was  smiling,  and  the 
children  were  laughing,  though  there  were  traces  of  tears 
on  their  cheeks ;  for  they  had  been  quarrelling  when  Melody 
found  them  in  the  fields  and  brought  them  away.  It  was  a 
pretty  picture  ;  the  stranger's  eyes  .brightened  as  he  gazed 
at  it.  But  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Miss  Vesta  was  not 
glad  to  see  Melody.  The  child  began  to  sing,  and  the 
woman  listened  for  the  words,  with  a  vague  trouble  darken- 
ing over  her  perturbed  spirit,  as  a  thunder-cloud  comes 
blackening  a  gray  sky,  filling  it  with  angry  mutterings, 
with  quick  flashes.  What  if  the  child  should  sing  the 
wrong  words,  she  thought !  What  were  the  wrong  words, 
and  how  should  she  know  whether  they  were  of  God  or  the 
Devil  ? 

It  was  an  old  song  that  Melody  was  singing ;  she  knew 
few  others,  indeed,  —  only  the  last  verse  of  an  old  song, 
which  Vesta  Dale  had  heard  all  her  life,  and  had  never 
thought  much  about,  save  that  it  was  a  good  song,  one  of 
the  kind  .Rejoice  liked. 

u  There  's  a  place  that  is  better  than  this,  Robin  Ruff, 
And  I  hope  in  my  heart  you  *11  go  there  ; 
Where  the  poor  man  's  as  great, 
Though  he  hath  no  estate, 

Ay,  as  though  he  'd  a  thousand  a  year,  Robin  Raff, 
As  though  he  *d  a  thousand  a  year  i " 


58  MELODY. 

"  So  you  see,"  said  Melody  to  the  children,  as  they  paced 
along,  "it  doesn't  make  any  real  difference  whether  we 
have  things  or  don't  have  them.  It 's  inside  that  one  has 
to  be  happy;  one  can't  be  happy  from  the  outside,  ever.  1 
should  think  it  would  be  harder  if  one  had  lots  of  things 
that  one  must  think  about,  and  take  care  of,  and  perhaps 
worry  over.  I  often  am  so  glad  I  have  n't  man y  things." 

They  passed  on,  going  down  into  the  little  meadow  where 
the  sweet  rushes  grew,  for  Melody  knew  that  no  child 
could  stay  cross  when  it  had  sweet  rushes  to  play  with ; 
and  Miss  Vesta  turned  to  the  stranger  with  a  quick,  fierce 
movement.  "  Go  away !  "  she  cried.  "  You  have  your  an- 
swer. Not  for  fifty  thousand  fortunes  should  you  have  the 
child !  Go,  and  never  come  here  again  1 " 

It  was  two  or  three  days  after  this  that  Dr.  Brown  was 
driving  rapidly  home  toward  the  village.  He  had  had  a 
tiresome  day,  and  he  meant  to  have  a  cup  of  Vesta  Dale's 
good  tea  and  a  song  from  Melody  to  smooth  down  his 
ruffled  plumage,  and  to  put  him  into  good-humor  again. 
His  patients  had  been  very  trying,  especially  the  last  one 
he  had  visited,  —  an  old  lady  who  sent  for  him  from  ten 
miles'  distance,  and  then  told  him  she  had  taken  seventy- 
five  bottles  of  Vegetine  without  benefit,  and  wanted  to  know 
what  she  should  do  next.  "  I  really  do  not  know,  Madam," 
the  doctor  replied,  "  unless  you  should  pound  up  the 
seventy-five  bottles  with  their  labels,  and  take  those." 
Whereupon  he  got  into  his  buggy  and  drove  off  withoxit 
another  word. 

But  the  Dale  girls  and  Melody  • —  bless  them  all  for  a  set 
of  angels! — would  soon  put  him  to  rights  again,  thought 
the  doctor,  and  he  would  send  old  Mrs.  Prabbles  some  pills 


THE  SERPENT.  59 

in  the  morning.  There  was  nothing  whatever  the  matter 
with  the  old  harridan.  Here  was  the  turn;  now  in  a 
moment  he  would  see  Vesta  sitting  in  the  doorway  at  her 
knitting,  or  looking  out  of  Rejoice's  window;  and  she 
would  call  the  child  whom  his  heart  loved,  and  then  for  a 
happy,  peaceful  evening,  and  all  vexations  forgotten  I 

But  what  was  this  ?  Instead  of  the  trim,  staid  figure  he 
looked  to  see,  who  was  this  frantic  woman  who  came  run- 
ning toward  him  from  the  little  house,  with  white  hair 
flying  on  the  wind,  with  wild  looks  ?  Her  dress  was  dis- 
ordered ;  her  eyes  stared  in  anguish ;  her  lips  stammered, 
making  confused  sounds,  which  at  first  had  no  meaning  to 
the  startled  hearer.  But  he  heard  —  oh,  he  heard  and  un- 
derstood, when  the  distracted  woman  grasped  his  arm,  and 
cried,  — 

tl  Melody  is  stolen  !  stolen  !  and  Rejoice  is  dead  I " 


CHAPTER  VIL 

LOST. 

IV  yf  ISS  REJOICE  was  not  dead ;  though  the  doctor  had 
•*•*•*•  a  m<^nent  of  dreadful  fright  when  he  saw  her  lying 
all  crumpled  up  on  the  floor,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face  like 
wrinkled  wax.  Between  them,  the  doctor  and  Miss  Vesta 
got  her  back  into  bed,  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and  put  stim- 
ulants between  her  closed  lips.  At  last  her  breath  began  to 
flutter,  and  then  came  back  steadily.  She  opened  her  eyes ; 
at  first  they  were  soft  and  mild  as  usual,  but  presently  a 
wild  look  stole  into  them. 

"The  child  !  "  she  whispered ;  "  the  child  is  gone  ! " 
"We  know  it,"  said  Dr.  Brown,  quietly.  "We  shall 
find  her,  Rejoice,  never  fear.  Now  you  must  rest  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  you  shall  tell  us  how  it  happened.  Why, 
we  found  you  on  the  floor,  my  child,"  —  Miss  Rejoice  was 
older  than  the  doctor,  but  it  seemed  natural  to  call  her  by 
any  term  of  endearment,  —  "  how  upon  earth  did  you  get 
there  ? " 

Slowly,  with  many  pauses  for  breath  and  composure, 
Miss  Rejoice  told  her  story.  It  was  short  enough.  Melody 
had  been  sitting  with  her,  reading  aloud  from  the  great 
book  which  now  lay  face  downward  on  the  floor  by  the 
window.  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost "  it  was,  and  Rejoice 
Dale  could  never  bear  to  hear  the  book  named  in  her  life 


LOST.  61 

after  this  time.  A  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  Melody  went  out  to  see  who  had  come.  As  she 
went,  she  said,  "  It  is  a  strange  wagon  ;  I  have  never  heard 
it  before."  They  both  supposed  it  some  stranger  who  had 
stopped  to  ask  for  a  glass  of  water,  as  people  often  did, 
driving  through  the  village  on  their  way  to  the  mountains. 
The  sick  woman  heard  a  man  speaking,  in  smooth,  soft 
tones ;  she  caught  the  words  :  "  A  little  drive  —  fine  after- 
noon ;  "  and  Melody's  clear  voice  replying,  "  Xo,  thank  you, 
sir ;  you  are  very  kind,  but  my  aunt  and  I  are  alone,  and  1 
could  not  leave  her.  Shall  I  bring  you  a  glass  of  water  ?  " 
Then  —  oh,  then  —  there  was  a  sound  of  steps,  a  startled 
murmur  in  the  beloved  voice,  and  then  a  scream.  Oh,  such 
a  scream  !  Rejoice  Dale  shrank  down  in  her  bed,  and  cried 
out  herself  in  agony  at  the  memory  of  it.  She  had  called, 
she  had  shrieked  aloud,  the  helpless  creature,  and  her  only 
answer  was  another  cry  of  anguish  :  "  Help  !  help  !  Auntie  ! 
Doctor !  Kosin !  Oh,  Rosin,  Rosin,  help ! "  Then  the  cry 
was  muffled,  stifled,  sank  away  into  dreadful  silence ;  the 
wagon  drove  off,  and  all  was  over.  Rejoice  Dale  found 
herself  on  the  floor,  dragging  herself  along  on  her  elbows. 
Paralyzed  from  the  waist  down,  the  body  was  a  weary 
weight  to  drag,  but  she  clutched  at  a  chair,  a  table  ;  gained 
a  little  way  at  each  movement ;  thought  she  was  nearly  at 
the  door,  when  sense  and  strength  failed,  and  she  knew 
nothing  more  till  she  saw  her  sister  and  the  doctor  bending 
over  her. 

Then  Miss  Vesta,  very  pale,  with  lips  that  trembled,  and 
voice  that  would  not  obey  her  will,  but  broke  and  quavered, 
and  failed  at  times,  like  a  strange  instrument  one  has  not 
learned  how  to  master,  —  Miss  Vesta  told  her  story,  of  the 
dark  stranger  who  had  come  three  days  before  and  taken 


62  MELODY. 

her  up  to  a  pinnacle,  and  showed-  her  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth. 

"I  did  not  tell  you,  Kejoice,"  she  cried,  holding  her 
sister's  hand,  and  gazing  into  her  face  in  an  agony  of  self- 
reproach  ;  "  I  did  not  tell  you,  because  I  was  really  tempted, 
—  not  for  myself,  I  do  believe  ;  I  am  permitted  to  believe, 
and  it  is  the  one  comfort  I  have,  —  but  for  you,  Kejoice, 
my  dear,  and  for  the  child  herself.  But  mostly  for  you, 
oh,  my  God  !  mostly  for  you.  And  when  I  came  to  myself 
and  knew  you  would  rather  die  ten  times  over  than  have 
luxuries  bought  with  the  child's  happy,  innocent  life,  — 
when  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  ashamed,  and  did  not  tell 
you,  for  I  did  not  want  you  to  think  badly  of  me.  If  I 
had  told  you,  you  would  have  been  on  your  guard,  and  have 
put  me  on  mine ;  and  I  should  never  have  left  you,  blind 
fool  that  I  was,  for  you  would  have  showed  me  the  danger. 
Doctor,  we  are  two  weak  women,  —  she  in  body,  I  in  mind 
and  heart.  Tell  us  what  we  shall  do,  or  I  think  we  must 
both  die ! " 

Dr.  Brown  hardly  heard  her  appeal,  so  deeply  was  he 
thinking,  wondering,  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  counsel. 
But  Rejoice  Dale  took  her  sister's  hand  in  hers. 

"  ( Though  a  thousand  fall  beside  thee,  and  ten  thousand 
at  thy  right  hand,  yet  it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee, ' "  she 
said  steadfastly.  "  Our  blind  child  is  in  her  Father's  hand, 
Sister ;  He  leads  her,  and  she  can  go  nowhere  without  Him. 
Go  you  now,  and  seek  for  her." 

"  I  cannot ! "  cried  Vesta  Dale,  wringing  her  hands  and 
weeping.  "I  cannot  leave  you,  Rejoice.  You  know  I 
cannot  leave  you." 

Both  women  felt  for  the  first  time,  with  a  pang  unspeak- 
able, the  burden  of  restraint.  The  strong  woman  wrung 


LOST.  63 

her  hands  again,  and  moaned  like  a  dumb  creature  in  pain ; 
the  helpless  body  of  the  cripple  quivered  and  shrank  away 
from  itself,  but  the  soul  within  was  firm. 

"You  must  go,"  said  Miss  Rejoice,  quietly.  "Neither 
of  us  could  bear  it  if  you  stayed.  If  I  know  you  are 
searching,  I  can  be  patient;  and  I  shall  have  help." 

"Amanda  Loomis  could  come,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  mis- 
understanding her. 

"Yes,"  said  Rejoice,  with  a  faint  smile;  "  Amanda  can 
come,  and  I  shall  do  very  well  indeed  till  you  come  back 
witli  the  child.  Go  at  once,  Vesta;  don't  lose  a  moment. 
Put  on  your  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  Doctor  will  drive  you 
over  to  the  Corners.  The  stage  goes  by  in  an  hour's  time, 
and  you  have  none  too  long  to  reach  it." 

Dr.  Brown  seemed  to  wake  suddenly  from  the  distressful 
dream  in  which  he  had  been  plunged.  "  Yes,  I  will  drive 
you  over  to  the  stage,  Vesta,"  he  said.  "  God  help  me  !  it 
is  all  I  can  do.  I  have  an  operation  to  perform  at  noon,  Tt 
is  a  case  of  life  and  death,  and  I  have  no  right  to  leave  it. 
The  man's  whole  life  is  not  worth  one  hour  of  Melody's," 
he  added  with  some  bitterness  ;  " but  that  makes  no  Differ- 
ence, I  suppose.  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  Girls !  " 
he  cried,  "you  know  well  enough  that  if  it  were  my  own 
life^  I  would  throw  it  down  the  well  to  give  the  child  an 
hour's  pleasure,  let  alone  saving  her  from  misery,  —  and 
perhaps  from  death  ! "  he  added  to  himself ;  for  only  he  and 
the  famous  physician  who  had  examined  Melody  at  his 
instance  knew  that  under  all  the  joy  and  vigor  of  the 
child's  simple,  healthy  life  lay  dormant  a  trouble  of  the 
heart,  which  would  make  any  life  of  excitement  or  fatigue 
fatal  to  her  in  short  space,  though  she  might  live  in  quiet 
mam;  happy  years.  Yes,  one  other  person  knew  this,  —  hia 


64  MELODY, 

friend  Dr.  Anthony,  whose  remonstrances  against  the 
wickedness  of  hiding  this  rare  jewel  from  a  world  of 
appreciation  and  of  fame  could  only  be  silenced  by 
showing  him  the  bitter  drop  which  lay  at  the  heart  of 
the  rose. 

Rejoice  Dale  reassured  him  by  a  tender  pressure  of  the 
hand,  and  a  few  soothing  words.  They  had  known  each 
other  ever  since  their  pinafore  days,  these  three  people. 
He  was  younger  %  than  Miss  Rejoice,  and  he  had  been 
deeply  in  love  with  her  when  he  was  an  awkward  boy 
of  fifteen,  and  she  a  lovely  seventeen-year-old  girl.  They 
had  called  him  "  doctor  "  at  first  in  sport,  when  he  came 
home  to  practise  in  his  native  village ;  but  soon  he  had 
so  fully  shown  his  claim  to  the  grave  title  that  "the 
girls  "  and  every  one  else  had  forgotten  the  fact  that  he 
had  once  been  "  Jack "  to  the  whole  village. 

"Doctor,"  said  the  sick  woman,  "try  not  to  think  about 
it  more  than  you  ca:i  help  !  There  are  all  the  sick  people 
looking  to  you  as  next  to  the  hand  of  God ;  your  path  is 
clear  before  you." 

Dr.  Brown  groaned.  He  wished  his  path  were  not  so 
clear,  that  he  might  in  some  way  make  excuse  to  turn 
aside  from  it.  "  I  will  give  Vesta  a  note  to  Dr.  Anthony," 
\e  said,  brightening  a  little  at  the  thought.  "  He  will  do 
anything  in  his  power  to  help  us.  There  are  other  people, 
too,  who  will  be  kind.  Yes,  yes ;  we  shall  have  plenty  of 
help." 

He  fidgeted  about  the  room,  restless  and  uneasy,  till  Miss 
Vesta  came  in,  in  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  "  I  have  no 
choice,"  he  repeated  doggedly,  hugging  his  duty- close,  as 
if  to  dull  the  pressure  of  the  pain  within.  "  But  how  can 
you  go  alone,  Vesta,  my  poor  girl  ?  You  are  not  fit ;  you 


LOST.  65 

are  trembling  all  over.  God  help  us  !  "  cried  Dr.  Brown, 
again. 

For  a  moment  the  two  strong  ones  stood  irresolute, 
feeling  themselves  like  little  children  in  the  grasp  of  a  fate 
too  big  for  them  to  grapple.  The  sick  woman  closed  her 
eyes,  and  waited.  God  would  help,  in  His  good  way.  She 
knew  no  more,  and  no  more  was  needed.  There  were  a  few 
moments  of  silence,  as  if  all  were  waiting  for  something, 
they  knew  not  what,  —  a  sign,  perhaps,  that  they  were  not 
forgotten,  forsaken,  on  the  sea  of  this  great  trouble. 

Suddenly  through  the  open  window  stole  a  breath  of 
sound.  Faint  and  far,  it  seemed  at  first  only  a  note  of  the 
summer  breeze,  taking  a  deeper  tone  than  its  usual  soft 
murmur.  It  deepened  still;  took  form,  rhythm;  made 
itself  a  body  of  sound,  sweet,  piercing,  thrilling  on  the  ear. 
And  at  the  .sound  of  it,  Vesta  Dale  fell  away  again  into 
helpless  weeping,  like  a  frightened  child ;  for  it  was  the 
tune  of  "  Rosin  the  Beau." 

"  Who  shall  tell  him  ?  "  she  moaned,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  rocking  to  and  fro,  — "oh,  who  shall 
tell  him  that  the  light  of  our  life  and  his  is  gone  out  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

WAITING. 

FT  OW  did  the  time  pass  with  the  sick  woman,  ^  iraug  in 
•*-  •*•  the  little  chamber,  listening  day  by  day  am]  hour  by 
hour  for  the  steps,  the  voices,  which  did  not  come  ?  Miss 
Rejoice  was  very  peaceful,  very  quiet,  —  too  quiet,  thought 
Mandy  Loomis,  the  good  neighbor  who  watched  by  her, 
fulfilling  her  little  needs,  and  longing  with  a  thirsty  soul 
for  a  good  dish  of  gossip.  If  Rejoice  would  only  "open 
her  mind ! "  it  would  be  better  for  her,  and  such  a  relief 
to  poor  Mandy,  unused  to  silent  people  who  bore  their 
troubles  with  a  smile. 

"  Where  do  you  s'pose  she  is,  Rejoice  ? "  Mrs.  Loomis 
would  cry,  twenty  times  a  day.  "  Where  do  you  s'pose  she 
is  ?  Ef  we  only  knew,  '  t  would  be  easier  to  bear,  seems  's 
though.  Don't  you  think  so,  Rejoice  ?  " 

But  Rejoice  only  shook  her  head,  and  said,  "  She  is  cared 
for,  Mandy,  we  must  believe.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  be 
quiet,  and  wait  for  the  Lord's  time." 

"  Dear  to  goodness  !  She  can  wait ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Loomis  to  Mrs.  Penny,  when  the  latter  came  in  one  evening 
to  see  if  any  news  had  come.  "  She  ain't  done  anything 
but  wait,  you  may  say,  ever  sence  time  was,  Rejoice  ain't. 
But  I  do  find  it  dretful  tryin'  now,  Mis'  Penny,  now  I  tell 
ye.  Settin'  here  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  she  so  quiet 
in  there,  well,  I  do  want  to  fly  sometimes,  seems  's  though, 


WAITING.  67 

Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  to  be  sure.  Tiie*  ain't  a  soul 
ben  by  this  day.  Set  down,  do.  You  want  to  go  in  'n'  see 
Rejoice  ?  Jest  in  a  minute.  I  do  think  I  shall  have  a 
sickness  if  I  don't  have  some  one  to  open  my  mind  to. 
Now,  Mis'  Penny,  where  do  you  s'pose,  where  do  you  s'pose 
that  child  is  ? "  Then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she 
plunged  headlong  into  the  stream  of  talk. 

"  Xo,  we  ain't  heard  a  word.  Vesta  went  off  a  week  ago, 
and  Mr.  De  Arthenay  with  her.  Providential,  was  n't  it, 
his  happenin'  along  just  in  the  nick  o'  time  ?  I  do  get  out 
of  patience  with  Rejoice  sometimes,  takin'  the  Lord  quite 
so  much  for  granted  as  she  doos ;  for,  after  all,  the  child 
was  stole,  you  can't  get  over  that,  and  seems  's  though  if 
there  'd  ben  such  a  good  lookout  as  she  thinks,  —  well, 
there !  I  don't  want  to  be  profane ;  but  I  will  say  't  was  a 
providence,  Mr.  De  Arthenay  happenin'  along.  Well,  they 
went,  and  not  a  word  have  we  heard  sence  but  just  one 
letter  from  Vesta,  sayin'  they  had  n't  found  no  trace  yet, 
but  they  hoped  to  every  day,  —  and  land  sakes,  we  knew 
that,  I  should  hope.  Dr.  Brown  comes  in  every  day  to 
cheer  her  up,  though  I  do  declare  I  need  it  more  than  she 
doos,  seems  's  though.  He 's  as  close  as  an  oyster,  Dr. 
Brown  is ;  I  can't  even  get  the  news  out  of  him,  most 
times.  How 's  that  boy  of  'Bind  Parker's,  —  him  that  fell 
and  hurt  his  leg  so  bad  ?  Gettin'  well,  is  he  ?  " 

"No,  he  is  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Penny,  stepping  in  quickly  on 
the  question,  as  her  first  chance  of  getting  in  a  word. 
"  He  's  terrible  slim ;  I  heard  Doctor  say  so.  They  're 
afraid  of  the  kangaroo  settin'  in  in  the  j'int,  and  you  know 
that  means  death,  sartin  sure." 

Both  women  nodded,  drawing  in  their  breath  with  an 
awful  relish. 


68  MELODY. 

"  'T  will  be  a  terrible  loss  to  his  mother,"  said  Mandy 
Loomis.  "  Such  a  likely  boy  as  he  was  gettin'  to  be,  and 
'Biud  so  little  good,  one  way  and  another.11 

"  Do  you  think  they  '11  hear  news  of  Melody  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Penny,  changing  the  subject  abruptly. 

Amanda  Loomis  plumped  her  hands  down  on  her  knees, 
and  leaned  forward;  it  was  good  to  listen,  but,  oh,  how 
much  better  it  was  to  speak ! 

"  I  don't,"  she  said,  with  gloomy  emphasis.  "  If  you  ask 
me  what  I  reelly  think,  Mis'  Fenny,  it 's  that.  I  don't 
think  we  shall  ever  set  eyes  on  that  blessed  child  again. 
Rejoice  is  so  sartin  sure,  sometimes  my  hopes  get  away 
with  me,  and  I  forgit  my  jedgment  for  a  spell.  But  there ! 
see  how  it  is !  Now,  mind,  what  I  say  is  for  this  room 
only."  She  spread  her  hands  abroad,  as  if  warning  the  air 
around  to  secrecy,  and  lowered  her  voice  to  an  awestruck 
whisper.  "  I  've  ben  here  a  week  now,  Mis'  Penny.  Every 
night .  the  death-watch  has  ticked  in  Mel'dy's  room  the 
endurin'  night.  I  don't  sleep,  you  know,  fit  to  support  a 
flea.  I  hear  every  hour  strike  right  straight  along,  and  1 
know  things  that 's  hid  from  others,  Mis'  Penny,  though  I 
do  say  it.  Last  night  as  ever  was  I  heard  a  sobbin'  and  a 
sighin'  goin'  round  the  house,  as  plain  as  I  hear  you  this 
minute.  Some  might  ha'  said  't  was  the  wind,  but  there 's 
other  things  besides  wind,  Mis'  Penny;  and  I  solemnly 
believe  that  was  Mel'dy's  sperrit,  and  the  child  is  dead.  It 
ain't  my  interest  to  say  it,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  tone,  putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes :  "  goodness  knows 
it  ain't  my  interest  to  say  it.  What  that  child  has  been  to 
me  nobody  knows.  When  I  've  had  them  weakly  spells, 
the'  warn't  nobody  but  Mel'dy  could  ha'  brought  me  out  of 
'em  alive,  well  I  know.  She  tended  me  and  sung  to  me 


WAITING.  69 

like  all  the  angels  in  heaven,  and  when  she  'd  lay  her  hand 
on  rae  —  well,  there !  seems  's  though  my  narves  'ud  quiet 
right  down,  and  blow  away  like  smoke.  I  've  ben  a  well 
woman  —  that  is  to  say,  for  one  that 's  always  enjoyed  poor 
health  —  sence  Dr.  Brown  sent  that  blessed  child  to  me. 
She  has  a  gift,  if  ever  any  one  had.  Dr.  Brown  had  ought 
to  give  her  half  of  what  he  makes  doctorin' ;  she  's  more 
help  than  all  the  medicine  ever  he  gives.  I  never  saw  a 
doctor  so  dretful  stingy  with  his  stuff.  Why,  I've  ben 
perishin'  sometimes  for  want  o'  doctorin',  and  all  he  'd  give 
nit-  \v;is  a  little  pepsin,  or  tell  me  to  take  as  much  sody  as 
would  lay  on  the  p'int  of  a  penknife,  or  some  such  thing, — 
not  so  much  as  you'd  give  to  a  canary-bird.  1  do  some- 
times wish  we  had  a  doctor  who  knew  the  use  o'  medicine, 
'stead  of  everlastin'ly  talkin'  about  the  laws  o'  health,  and 
hulsome  food,  and  all  them  notions.  Why,  there's  old 
Dr.  Jalap,  over  to  the  Corners.  He  give  Beulah  Pegrura 
seven  Liver  Pills  at  one  dose,  and  only  charged  her  fifty 
cents,  over  'n'  above  the  cost  of  the  pills.  Now  that's 
what  I  call  doctorin',  —  not  but  what  I  like  Dr.  Brown 
well  enough.  But  Mel'dy  —  well,  there !  and  now  to  have 
her  took  off  so  suddin,  and  never  to  know  whether  she 's 
buried  respectable,  or  buried  at  all !  You  hear  awful 
stories  of  city  ways,  these  times.  Now,  this  is  for  this 
room  only,  and  don't  you  ever  tell  a  soul!  It's  as  true 
as  I  live,  they  have  a  furnace  where  they  burn  folks' 
bodies,  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  was  hick'ry  lawgs.  My 
cousin  Salome's  nephew  that  lives  in  the  city  saw  one  once. 
He  thought  it  was  connected  with  the  gas-works,  but  he 
did  n't  know  for  sure.  Mis'  Penny,  if  Rejoice  Dale  was  to 
know  that  Mel'dy  was  made  into  gas  —  " 
Martha  Penny  clutched  the  speaker's  arm,  and  laid  her 


70  MELODY. 

hand  over  her  mouth,  with  a  scared  loo'k.  The  door  of  the 
bedroom  had  swung  open  in  the  breeze,  and  in  the  stress  of 
feeling  Mandy  Loornis  had  raised  her  voice  higher  and 
higher,  till  the  last  words  rang  through  the  house  like  the 
wail  of  a  sibyl.  But  above  the  wail  another  sound  was  now 
rising,  the  voice  of  Kejoice  Dale,  —  not  calm  and  gentle, 
as  they  had  always  heard  it,  but  high-pitched,  quivering 
with  intense  feeling. 

"  I  see  her ! "  cried  the  sick  woman.  "  I  see  the  child ! 
Lord,  save  her !  Lord,  save  her ! " 

The  two  women  hurried  in,  and  found  her  sitting  up  in 
bed,  her  eyes  wide,  her  arm  outstretched,  pointing  —  at 
what  ?  Involuntarily  they  turned  to  follow  the  pointing 
finger,  and  saw  the  yellow-washed  wall,  and  the  wreath  of 
autumn  leaves  that  always  hung  there. 

"  What  is  it,  Rejoice  ?  "  cried  Mandy,  terrified.  "  What 
do  you  see  ?  Is  it  a  spirit  ?  Tell  us,  for  pity's  sake  ! " 

But  even  at  that  moment  a  change  came.  The  rigid 
muscles  relaxed,  the  whole  face  softened  to  its  usual 
peaceful  look ;  the  arm  dropped  gently,  and  Kejoice  Dale 
sank  back  upon  her  pillow  and  smiled. 

"  Thy  rod  and  thy  staff ! "  she  said.  "  Thy  rod  and  thy 
staff!  they  comfort  me."  And  for  the  first  time  since 
Melody  was  lost,  she  fell  asleep,  and  slept  like  a  little 
child. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BLONDEL. 

VTOONTLDE  in  the  great  city!  The  July  sun  blazes 
*•  ^  down  upon  the  brick  sidewalks,  heating  them  through 
and  through,  till  they  scorch  the  bare  toes  of  the  little 
street  children,  who  creep  about,  sheltering  their  eyes  with 
their  hands,  and  keeping  in  the  shade  when  it  is  possible. 
The  apple-women  crouch  close  to  the  wa}l,  under  their 
green  umbrellas ;  the  banana-sellers  look  yellow  and  wilted 
as  their  own  wares.  Men  pass  along,  hurrying,  because 
they  are  Americans,  arid  business  must  go  on  whether  it  be 
hot  or  cold ;  but  they  move  in  a  dogged  jog-trot,  expressive 
of  weariness  and  disgust,  and  wipe  their  brows  as  they  go, 
muttering  anathemas  under  their  breath  on  the  whole 
summer  season.  Most  of  the  men  are  in  linen  coats,  some 
in  no  coats  at  all ;  all  wear  straw  hats,  and  there  is  a  great 
display  of  palm-leaf  fans,  waving  in  all  degrees  of  energy. 
Here  and  there  is  seen  an  umbrella,  but  these  are  not  fre- 
quent, for  it  seems  to  the  American  a  strange  and  womanish 
thing  to  carry  an  umbrella  except  'for  rain  ;  it  also  requires 
attention,  and  takes  a  man's  mind  off  his  business.  Each 
man  of  all  the  hurrying  thousands  is  shut  up  in  himself, 
carrying  his  little  world,  which  is  all  the  world  there  is, 
about  with  him,  seeing  the  other  hurrying  mites  only  "  as 
trees  walking,"  with  no  thought  or  note  of  them.  Who 
cares  about  anybody  else  when  it  is  so  hot  ?  Get  through 


72  MELODY. 

the  day's  work,  and  away  to  tlie  wife  and  children  in  the 
cool  by  the  sea-shore,  or  in  the-  comfortable  green  suburb, 
where,  if  one  must  still  be  hot,  one  can  at  least  suffer  de- 
cently, and  not  "  like  a  running  river  be,"  —  with  apologies 
to  the  boy  Chatterton. 

Among  all  these  hurrying  motes  in  the  broad,  fierce 
stream  of  sunshine,  one  figure  moves  slowly,  without  haste. 
Nobody  looks  at  anybody  else,  or  this  figure  might  attract 
some  attention,  even  in  the  streets  of  the  great  city.  An 
old  man,  tall  and  slender,  with  snowy  hair  falling  in  a 
single  curl  over  his  forehead;  with  brown  eyes  which 
glance  birdlike  here  and  there,  seeing  everything,  taking 
in  every  face,  every  shadow  of  a  vanishing  form  that 
hurries  along  and  away  from  him ;  with  fiddle-bow  in  hand, 
and  fiddle  held  close  and  tenderly  against  his  shoulder. 
De  Arthenay,  looking  for  his  little  girl! 

Not  content  with  scanning  every  face  as  it  passes,  he 
looks  up  at  the  houses,  searching  with  eager  eye  their  blank, 
close-shuttered  walls,  as  if  in  hope  of  seeing  through  the 
barriers  of  brick  and  stone,  and  surprising  the  secrets  that 
may  lurk  within.  Now  and  then  a  house  seems  to  take  his 
fancy,  for  he  stops,  and  still  looking  up  at  the  windows, 
plays  a  tune.  It  is  generally  the  same  tune,  —  a  simple, 
homely  old  air,  which  the  street-boys  can  readily  take  up 
and  whistle,  though  they  do  not  hear  it  in  the  music-halls 
or  on  the  hand-organs.  A  languid  crowd  gathers  round 
him  when  he  pauses  thus,  for  street-boys  know  a  good 
fiddler  when  they  hear  him ;  and  this  is  a  good  fiddler. 

When  a  crowd  has  collected,  the  old  man  turns  his 
attention  from  the  silent  windows  (they  are  generally 
silent;  or  if  a  face  looks  out,  it  is  not  the  beloved  one 
which  is  in  his  mind  night  and  day,  day  and  night)  and 


BLONDEL.  73 

scans  the  faces  around  him,  with  sad,  eager  eyes.  Then, 
stopping  short  in  his  playing,  he  taps  sharply  on  his  fiddle, 
and  asks  in  a  clear  voice  if  any  one  has  seen  or  heard  of  a 
blind  child,  with  beautiful  brown  hair,  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
the  most  wonderful  voice  in  the  world. 

No  one  has  heard  of  such  a  child ;  but  one  tells  K*  n  of  a 
blind  negro  who  can  play  the  trombone,  and  another  knows 
of  a  blind  woman  who  tells  fortunes  "  equal  to  the  best 
mejums;"  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  He  shakes  his  head  with 
a  patient  look,  makes  his  grand  bow,  and  passes  on  to  the 
next  street,  the  next  wondering  crowd,  the  next  disappoint- 
ment. Sometimes  he  is  hailed  by  some  music-hall  keeper 
who  hears  him  play,  and  knows  a  good  thing  when  he  hears 
it,  and  who  engages  the  old  fiddler  to  play  for  an  evening 
or  two.  He  goes  readily  enough  ;  for  there  is  no  knowing 
where  the  dark  stranger  may  have  taken  the  child,  and  where 
no  clew  is,  one  may  follow  any  track  that  presents  itself.  So 
the  old  man  goes,  and  sits  patiently  in  the  hot,  noisy  place. 
At  first  the  merry-makers,  who  are  not  of  a  high  degree  of 
refinement,  make  fun  of  him,  and  cut  many  a  joke  at  the 
expense  of  his  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons,  his  nankeen 
trousers  and  old-fashioned  stock.  But  he  heeds  them  not; 
and  once  he  begins  to  play,  they  forget  all  about  his  looks, 
and  only  want  to  dance,  dance,  and  say  there  never  was  such 
music  for  dancing.  When  a  pleasant-looking  girl  comes  near 
him,  or  pauses  in  the  dance,  he  calls  her  to  him,  and  asks  her 
in  a  low  tone  the  usual  question :  has  she  seen  or  heard 
of  a  blind  child,  with  the  most  beautiful  hair,  etc.  He  is 
careful  whom  he  asks,  however ;  he  would  not  insult  Melody 
by  asking  for  her  of  some  of  these  young  women,  with  bold 
eyes,  with  loose  hair  and  disordered  looks.  So  he  sits 
and  plays,  a  quaint,  old-world  figure,  among  the  laughing, 


74  MELODY. 

dancing,  foolish  crowd.  Old  Be  Arthenay,  from  the  Andre- 
scoggin,  —  what  would  his  ancestor,  the  gallant  Marquis 
who  came  over  with  Baron  Castine  to  America,  what 
would  the  whole  line  of  ancestors,  from  the  crusaders  down, 
say  to  see  their  descendant  in  such  a  place  as  this  ?  He 
has  always  held  his  head  high,  though  he  has  earned  his 
bread  by  fiddling,  varied  by  shoemaking  in  the  winter-time. 
He  has  always  kept  good  company,  he  would  tell  you,  and 
would  rather  go  hungry  any  day  than  earn  a  dinner  among 
people  who  do  not  regard  the  decencies  of  life.  Even  in  this 
place,  people  come  to  feel  the  quality  of  the  old  man,  some- 
how, and  no  one  speaks  rudely  to  him ;  and  voices  are  even 
lowered  as  they  pass  him,  sitting  grave  and  erect  on  his  stool, 
his  magic  bow  flying,  his  foot  keeping  time  to  the  music. 
All  the  old  tunes  he  plays,  "  Money  Musk,"  and  "  Portland 
Fancy,"  and  "Lady  of  the  Lake."  Now  he  quavers  into 
the  "  Chorus  Jig  ; "  but  no  one  here  knows  enough  to  dance 
that,  so  he  comes  back  to  the  simpler  airs  again.  And  as 
he  plays,  the  whole  tawdry,  glaring  scene  drops  away  from 
the  old  man's  eyes,  and  instead  of  vulgar  gaslight  he  sees 
the  soft  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun  on  the  country  road, 
and  the  graceful  elms  bending  in  an  arch  overhead,  as  if  to 
watch  the  child  Melody  as  she  dances.  The  slender  figure 
swaying  hither  and  thither,  with  its  gentle,  wind-blown 
motion,  the  exquisite  face  alight  with  happiness,  the  float- 
ing tendrils  of  hair,  the  most  beautiful  hair  in  the  world ; 
then  the  dear,  homely  country  folks  sitting  by  the  road- 
side, watching  with  breathless  interest  his  darling,  their 
darling,  the  flower  of  the  whole  country-side ;  Miss  Vesta's 
tall,  stately  figure  in  the  doorway ;  the  vine-clad  window, 
behind  which  Rejoice  lies,  unseen,  yet  sharing  all  the 
»weet,  simple  pleasure  with  heartfelt  enjoyment,  —  all 


BLONDEL.  75 

this  the  old  fiddler  sees,  set  plain  before  him.  The  "  lady  " 
on  his  arm  (for  De  Artheuay's  fiddle  is  a  lady  as  surely  as 
he  is  a  gentleman),  — the  lady  feels  it  too,  perhaps,  for  she 
thrills  to  his  touch,  as  the  bow  goes  leaping  over  the 
strings ;  and  more  than  one  wild  girl  and  rough  fellow  feels 
a  touch  of  something  that  has  not  been  felt  mayhap  for 
many  a  day,  and  goes  home  to  stuffy  garret  or  squalid 
cellar  the  better  for  that  night's  music.  And  when  it  is 
over,  De  Arthenay  makes  his  stately  bow  once  more,  and 
walks  round  the  room,  aski'ng  his  question  in  low  tones  of 
such  as  seem  worthy  of  it ;  and  then  home,  patient,  un- 
daunted, to  the  quiet  lodging  where  Vesta  Dale  is  sitting 
up  for  him,  weary  after  her  day's  search  in  other  quarters 
of  the  city,  hoping  little  from  his  coming,  yet  unwilling  to 
lie  down  without  a  sight  of  his  face,  always  cheery  when  it 
meets  hers,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  saying,  — 

"  Better  luck  to-morrow,  Miss  Vesta !  better  luck  to- 
morrow !  There 's  One  has  her  in  charge,  and  He  did  n't 
need  us  to-day;  that's  all,  my  dear." 

God  help  thee,  De  Arthenay !  God  speed  and  prosper 
thee,  Rosin  the  Beau  ! 

But  is  not  another  name  more  fitting  even  than  the 
fantastic  one  of  his  adoption  ?  Is  not  this  Blondel,  faithful, 
patient,  undaunted,  wandering  by  tower  and  town,  singing 
his  song  of  love  and  hope  and  undying  loyalty  under  every 
window,  till  it  shall  one  day  fall  like  a  breath  from  heaven 
on  the  ear  of  the  prisoner,  sitting  in  darkness  and  the 
shadow  of  death  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 

DARKNESS. 

"  A  ^^  kow  's  our  sweet  little  lady  to-day  ?  She 's  looking 
•**  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  so  it 's  a  pleasure  to  look  at 
her.  How  are  you  feeling,  dearie  ?  " 

It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  spoke,  soft  and  wheedling, 
yet  with  a  certain  unpleasant  twang  in  it.  She  spoke  to 
Melody,  who  sat  still,  with  folded  hands,  and  head  bowed 
as  if  in  a  dream. 

"1  am  well,  thank  you,"  answered  the  child;  and  she 
was  silent  again. 

The  woman  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  a  man  who  liad 
followed  her  into  the  room,  —  a  dark  man  with  an  t-ager 
face  and  restless,  discontented  eyes  ;  the  same  man  who  had 
watched  Melody  over  the  wall  of  the  old  burying-gronnd, 
and  heard  her  sing.  He  had  never  heard  her  sing  since, 
save  for  that  little  snatch  of  "  Robin  Ruff,"  which  she  had 
sung  to  the  children  the  day  when  he  stood  and  pleaded 
with  Vesta  Dale  to  sell  her  soul  for  her  sister's  comfort. 

"  And  here  's  Mr.  Anderson  come  to  see  you,  according 
to  custom,"  said  the  woman ;  "  and  I  hope  you  are  glad  to 
see  him,  I  'm  sure,  for  he  's  your  best  friend,  dearie,  and  he 
does  love  you  so;  it  would  be  quite  surprising,  if  you 
were  n't  the  sweet  lamb  you  are,  sitting  there  like  a  flower 
all  in  the  dark," 


DARKNESS.  77 

She  paused,  and  waited  for  a  reply;  but  none  came. 
The  two  exchanged  a  glance  of  exasperation,  and  the 
woman  shook  her  fist  at  the  child ;  but  her  voice  was  still 
soft  and  smooth  as  she  resumed  her  speech. 

"  And  you  '11  sing  us  a  little  song  now,  dearie,  won't 
you  ?  To  think  that  you  've  been  here  near  a  week  now, 
and  I  have  n't  heard  the  sound  of  that  wonderful  voice  yet, 
only  in  speaking.  It 's  sweet  as  an  angel's  then,  to  be  sure ; 
but  dear  me  !  if  you  knew  what  Mr.  Anderson  has  told  me 
about  his  hearing  you  sing  that  day !  Such  a  particular 
gentleman  as  he  is,  too,  anybody  would  tell  you!  Why, 
I  've  seen  giris  with  voices  as  they  thought  the  wonder  of 
the  world,  and  their  friends  with  them,  and  Mr.  Anderson 
would  no  more  listen  to  them  than  the  dirt  under  his  feet; 
no,  indeed,  he  would  n't.  And  you  that  he  thinks  so  much 
of !  why,  it  makes  me  feel  real  bad  to  see  you  not  take  that 
comfort  in  him  as  you  might.  Why,  he  wants  to  be  a  father 
to  you,  dearie.  He  has  n't  got  any  little  girl  of  his  own, 
and  he  will  give  you  everything  that 's  nice,  that  he  will, 
just  as  soon  as  you  begin  to  get  a  little  fond  of  him,  and 
realize  all  he  's  doing  for  you.  Why,  most  young  ladies 
would  give  their  two  eyes  for  your  chance,  I  can  tell  you." 

She  was  growing  angry  in  spite  of  herself,  and  the  man 
Anderson  pulled  her  aside. 

"  It 's  no  use,"  he  said.  "  We  shall  just  have  to  wait. 
You  know,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  child, 
u  you  know  that  you  will  never  see  your  aunts  again  unless 
you  do  sing.  You  sense  that,  do  you  ?  " 

No  reply.  Melody  shivered  a  little,  then  drew  herself 
together  and  was  still,  —  the  stillest  figure  that  ever 
breathed  and  lived.  Anderson  clenched  his  hands  and 
fairly  trembled  with  rage  and  with  the  effort  to  conceal 


78  MELODY, 

it.  He  must  not  frighten  the  child  too  much.  He  could 
not  punish  her,  hurt  her  in  any  way ;  for  any  shock  might 
injure  the  precious  voice  which  was  to  make  his  fortune. 
He  was  no  fool,  this  man.  He  had  some  knowledge,  more 
ambition.  He  had  been  unsuccessful  on  the  whole,  had  been 
disappointed  in  several  ventures ;  now  he  had  found  a  treas- 
ure, a  veritable  gold-mine,  and — he  could  not  work  it  I 
Could  anything  be  more  exasperating  ?  This  child,  whose 
voice  could  rouse  a  whole  city  —  a  city !  could  rouse  the 
world  to  rapture,  absolutely  refused  to  sing  a  note !  He 
had  tried  cajolery,  pathos,  threats  $  he  had  called  together 
a  chosen  company  of  critics  to  hear  the  future  Catalani,  and 
had  been  forced  to  send  them  home  empty,  having  heard 
no  note  of  the  marvellous  voice  !  The  child  would  not 
sing,  she  would  not  even  speak,  save  in  the  briefest  possible 
fashion,  little  beyond  "  yes  "  and  "  no." 

What  was  a  poor  impresario  to  do  ?  He  longed  to  grasp 
her  by  the  shoulders  and  shake  the  voice  out  of  her ;  his 
hands  fairly  itched  to  get  hold  of  the  obstinate  little  piece 
of  humanity,  who,  in  her  childishness,  her  helplessness,  her 
blindness,  thus  defied  him,  and  set  all  his  cherished  plans 
at  nought. 

And  yet  he  would  not  have  shaken  her  probably,  even 
had  he  dared  to  do  so.  He  was  not  a  violent  man,  nor 
a  wholly  bad  one.  He  could  steal  a  child,  and  convince 
himself  that  it  was  for  the  child's  good  as  well  as  his  own ; 
but  he  could  not  hurt  a  child.  He  had  once  had  a  little 
girl  of  his  own ;  it  was  quite  true  that  he  had  intended  to 
play  a  father's  part  to  Melody,  if  she  -would  only  have 
behaved  herself.  In  the  grand  drama  of  success  that  he 
had  arranged  so  carefully,  it  was  a  most  charming  role  that 
he  had  laid  out  for  himself,  Anderson  the  benefactor, 


DARKXESS.  79 

Anderson  the  discoverer,  the  adopted  father  of  the  prodigy, 
the  patron  of  music.  Crowds  hailing  him  with  rapturous 
gratitude;  the  wonder-child  kneeling  and  presenting  him 
with  a  laurel  crown,  which  had  been  thrown  to  her,  but 
which  she  rightly  felt  to  be  his  due,  who  had  given  her  all, 
and  brought  her  from  darkness  into  light  1  Instead  of 
tliis,  what  part  was  this  he  was  really  playing?  Anderson 
the  kidnapper;  Anderson  the  villain,  the  ruffian,  the  in- 
vader of  peaceful  homes,  the  bogy  to  scare  naughty  chil- 
dren with.  He  did  not  say  all  this  to  himself,  perhaps, 
because  he  was  not,  save  when  carried  away  by  professional 
enthusiasm,  an  imaginative  man ;  but  he  felt  thoroughly 
uncomfortable,  and,  above  all,  absolutely  at  sea,  not  know- 
ing  which  way  to  turn.  As  he  stood  thus,  irresolute,  the 
woman  by  his  side  eying  him  furtively  from  time  to  time, 
Melody  turned  her  face  toward  him  and  spoke. 

"  If  you  will  take  me  home,"  she  said,  "  I  will  sing  to 
you.  I  will  sing  all  clay,  if  you  like.  But  here  I  will  never 
sing.  It  would  not  be  possible  for  you  to  make  me  do  it, 
so  why  do  you  try  ?  You  made  a  mistake,  that  is  all." 

"  Oh,  that 's  all,  is  it  ?  "  repeated  Anderson. 

"  Yes,  truly,"  the  child  went  on,  "  Perhaps  you  do  not 
mean  to  be  unkind,  —  Mrs.  Brown  says  you  do  not ;  but 
then  why  are  you  unkind,  and  why  will  you  not  take 
me  home  ?  " 

"It  is  for  your  own  good,  child,"  repeated  Anderson, 
doggedly.  "You  know  that  well  enough.  I  have  told 
you  how  it  will  all  be,  a  hundred  times.  You  were  not 
meant  for  a  little  village,  and  a  few  dull  old  people ;  you 
are  for  the  world,  the  great  world  of  wealth  and  fashion 
and  power.  If  you  were  not  either  a  fool  or  —  or  —  I 
don't  know  what,  you  would  see  the  matter  as  it  really  is. 


80  MELODY. 

Mrs.  Brown  is  right :  most  girls  would  give  their  eyes,  and 
t;heir  ears  too,  for  such  a  chance  as  you  have.  You  are  only 
i  child,  and  a  very  foolish  child ;  and  you  don't  know  what 
is  good  for  you.  Some  day  you  will  be  thankful  to  me  for 
naking  you  sing." 

Melody  smiled,  and  her  smile  said  much,  for  Anderson 
turned  red,  and  clenched  his  hands  fiercely. 

"  You  belong  to  the  world,  I  tell  you ! "  he  cried  again 
"  The  world  has  a  right  to  you." 

"  To  the  world  ?  "  the  child  repeated  softly.  "  Yes,  it  is 
true ;  I  do  belong  to  the  world,  —  to  God's  world  of  beauty, 
to  the  woods  and  fields,  the  flowers  and  grasses,  and  to  the 
people  who  love  me.  When  the  birds  sing  to  me  I  can 
answer  them,  and  they  know  that  my  song  is  as  sweet  as 
their  own.  The  brook  tells  me  its  story,  and  I  tell  it  again, 
and  every  ripple  sounds  in  my  voice ;  and  I  know  that  1 
please  the  brook,  and  all  who  hear  me,  —  little  beasts,  and 
flowers  that  nod  on  their  stems  to  hear,  and  trees  that  bend 
down  to  touch  me,  and  tell  me  by  their  touch  that  they  are 
well  pleased.  And  children  love  to  hear  me  sing,  and  I 
can  fill  their  little  hearts  with  joy.  I  sing  to  sick  people, 
and  they  are  easier  of  their  pain,  and  perhaps  they  may 
sleep,  when  they  have  not  been  able  to  sleep  for  long 
nights.  This  is  my  life,  my  work.  I  am  God's  child ;  and 
do  you  think  I  do  not  know  the  work  my  Father  has  given 
me  to  do  ?  "  With  a  sudden  movement  she  stepped  for^ 
ward,  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  the  man's  breast.  "  You 
are  God's  child,  too ! "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Are  you 
doing  His  work  now  ?  " 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  Anderson  was  as  if  spell- 
bound, his  eyes  fixed  on  the  child,  who  stood  like  a  youthful 
prophetess,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  beautiful  face  full  of 


DARKNESS.  81 

solemn  light,  her  arm  raised  in  awful  appeal.  The  woman 
threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  began  to  cry.  The  man 
moistened  his  lips  twice  or  thrice,  trying  to  speak,  but  no 
words  came.  At  length  he  made  a  sign  of  despair  to  his 
accomplice;  moved  back  from  that  questioning,  warning 
hand,  whose  light  touch  seemed  to  burn  through  and 
through  him, — moved  away,  groping  for  the  door,  his 
eyes  still  fixed  on  the  child's  face ;  stole  out  finally,  as  a 
thief  steals,  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

Mflody  stood  still,  looking  up  to  heaven.  A  great  peace 
filled  her  heart,  which  had  been  so  torn  and  tortured  these 
many  days  past,  ever  since  the  dreadful  moment  when  she 
had  been  forced  away  from  her  home,  from  her  life,  and 
brought  into  bondage  and  the  shadow  of  death.  She  had 
thought  till  to-day  that  she  should  die.  Not  that  she  was 
deserted,  not  that  God  had  forgotten,  —  oh,  no  ;  but  that  He 
did  not  need  her  any  longer  here,  that  she  had  not  been 
worthy  of  the  work  she  had  thought  to  be  hers,  and  that 
now  she  was  to  be  taken  elsewhere  to  some  other  task.  She 
was  only  a  child ;  her  life  was  strong  in  every  limb ;  but 
God  could  not  mean  her  to  live  here,  in  this  way, — that 
would  not  be  merciful,  and  His  property  was  always  to 
have  mercy.  So  death  would  come,  —  death  as  a  friend, 
just  as  Auntie  Joy  had  always  described  him ;  and  she 
would  go  hence,  led  by  her  Father's  hand. 

But  now,  what  change  was  coming  over  her  ?  The  air 
seemed  lighter,  clearer,  since  Anderson  had  left  the  room. 
A  new  hope  entered  her  heart,  coming  she  knew  not 
whence,  rilling  it  with  pulses  and  waves  of  joy.  She 
thought  of  her  home ;  and  it  seemed  to  grow  nearer,  more 
distinct,  at  every  moment.  She  saw  (as  blind  people  see)  the 
face  of  Rejoice  Dale,  beaming  with  joy  and  peace ;  she  felt 

6 


82  MELODY. 

the  strong  clasp  of  Miss  Vesta's  hand.  She  smelt  the  lilacs, 
the  white  lilacs  beneath  which  she  loved  to  sit  and  sing. 
She  heard  —  oh,  God  !  what  did  she  hear  ?  What  sound 
was  this  in  her  ears  ?  Was  it  still  the  dream,  the  lovely 
dream  of  home,  or  was  a  real  sound  thrilling  in  her  ears, 
beating  in  her  heart,  filling  the  whole  world  with  the  voice 
of  hope,  —  of  hope  fulfilled,  of  life  and  love  ? 

"  I  've  travelled  this  country  all  over, 

And  now  to  the  next  I  must  go ; 
But  I  know  that  good  quarters  await  me, 
And  a  welcome  to  V  ^sli.  the  Beau." 

Oh,  Father  of  mercy  !  never  doubted,  always  near  in  sorrow 
and  in  joy !  oh,  holy  angels,  who  have  held  my  hands  and 
lifted  me  up,  lest  I  dash  my  foot  against  a  stone !  A 
welcome,  —  oh,  on  my  knees,  in  humble  thanksgiving,  in 
endless  love  and  praise,  —  a  welcome  to  Rosin  the  Beau ! 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Brown  stood  before  her  employer, 
flushed  and  disordered,  making  her  defence. 

"I  couldn't  have  helped  it,  not  if  I  had  died  for  it,  Mr. 
Anderson.  You  could  n't  have  helped  it  yourself,  if  you 
had  been  there.  When  she  heard  that  fiddle,  the  child 
dropped  on  her  knees  as  if  she  had  been  shot,  and  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  faint.  But  the  next  minute  she  was  at 
the  window,  and  such  a  cry  as  she  gave  !  the  sound  of  it  is 
in  my  bones  yet,  and  will  be  till  I  die." 

She  paused,  and  wiped  her  fiery  face,  for  she  had  run 
bareheaded  through  the  blazing  streets. 

"Then  he  came  in,  —  the  old  man.  He  was  plain 
dressed,  but  he  came  in  like  a  king  to  his  throne ;  and  the 
child  drifted  into  his  arms  like  a  flake  of  snow,  and  there 


J1ARKNESS.  .  83 

she  lay.  Mr.  Anderson,  when  he  held  her  there  on  his 
breast,  and  turned  and  looked  at  me,  with  his  eyes  like  two 
black  coals,  all  power  was  taken  from  me,  and  I  could  n't 
have  moved  if  it  had  been  to  save  my  own  life.  He  pointed 
at  me  with  his  fiddle-bow,  but  it  might  have  been  a  sword  for 
all  the  difference  I  knew ;  anyway,  his  voice  went  through 
and  through  me  like  something  sharp  and  bright.  '  You 
cannot  move,'  he  said;  'you  have  no  power  to  move  hand 
or  foot  till  I  have  taken  my  child  away.  I  bid  you  be 
still ! '  Mr.  Anderson,  sir,  I  had  no  power  !  I  stood  still, 
and  they  went  away.  They  seemed  to  melt  away  together, 
—  he  with  his  arm  round  her  waist,  holding  her  up  like; 
and  she  with  her  face  turned  up  to  his,  and  a  look  like 
heaven,  if  I  ever  hope  to  see  heaven.  The  next  minute 
they  was  gone,  and  still  I  had  n't  never  moved.  And  now 
I  've  come  to  tell  you,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  smoothing 
down  her  ruffled  hair  in  great  agitation ;  "  and  to  tell  you 
something  else  too,  as  I  would  burst  if  I  did  n't.  I  am  glad 
he  has  got  her !  If  I  was  to  lose  my  place  fifty  times  over, 
as  you  've  always  been  good  pay  and  a  kind  gentleman  too, 
still  I  say  it,  I  'in  glad  he  has  got  her.  She  was  n't  of  your 
kind,  sir,  nor  of  mine  neither.  And  —  and  I  've  never  been 
a  professor,"  cried  the  woman,  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes, 
"  but  I  hope  I  know  an  angel  when  I  see  one,  and  I  mean 
to  be  a  better  woman  from  this  day,  so  I  do.  And  she 
asked  God  to  bless  me,  Mr.  Anderson,  she  did,  as  she  went 
away,  because  I  meant  to  be  kind  to  her ;  and  I  did  mean 
it,  the  blessed  creature !  And  she  said  good-by  to  you  too, 
sir ;  and  she  knew  you  thought  it  was  for  her  good,  only 
you  did  n't  know  what  God  meant.  And  I  'm  so  glad,  1  'm 
so  glad ! " 


84  . 

She  stopped  short,  more  surprised  than  she  had  ever  been 
in  her  life ;  for  Edward  Anderson  was  shaking  her  hand 
violently,  and  telling  her  that  she  was  a  good  woman,  a 
very  good  woman  indeed,  and  that  he  thought  the  better  of 
her  and  had  been  thinking  for  some  time  of  raising  her 
salarv 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LIGHT. 

T  LOVE  the  morning  light, — the  freshness,  the  pearls 
and  diamonds,  the  fairy  linen  spread  on  the  grass  to 
bleach  (there  be  those  who  call  it  spider-web,  but  to  such  I 
speak  not),  the  silver  fog  curling  up  from  river  and  valley. 
I  love  it  so  much  that  I  am  loath  to  confess  that  sometimes 
the  evening  light  is  even  more  beautiful.  Yet  is  there  a 
softness  that  comes  with  the  close  of  day,  a  glorification  of 
common  things,  a  drawing  of  purple  shadows  over  all  that 
is  rough  or  unsightly,  which  makes  the  early  evening  per- 
haps the  most  perfect  time  of  all  the  perfect  hours. 

It  was  such  an  hour  that  now  brooded  over  the  little 
village,  when  the  people  came  out  from  their  houses  to 
watch  for  Melody's  coming.  It  is  a  pretty  little  village 
at  all  times,  very  small  and  straggling,  but  lovely  with 
flowers  and  vines  and  dear,  homely  old  houses,  which 
have  not  found  out  that  they  are  again  in  the  fashion 
out  of  which  they  were  driven  many  years  ago,  but  still 
hold  themselves  humbly,  with  a  respect  for  the  brick  and 
stucco  of  which  they  have  heard  from  time  to  time.  It 
is  always  pretty,  I  say,  but  this  evening  it  had  received 
some  fresh  baptism  of  beauty,  as  if  the  Day  knew  what 
was  coming,  and  had  pranked  herself  in  her  very  best  for 
the  festival.  The  sunbeams  slanted  down  the  straggling, 
grass-grown  road,  and  straightway  it  became  an  avenue 


86  MELODY. 

of  wonder,  with  gold-dust  under  foot,  flecked  here  and 
there  with  emerald.  The  elms  met  over  head  in  triumphal 
arches ;  the  creepers  on  the  low  houses  hung  out  wonderful 
scarfs  and  banners  of  welcome,  which  swung  gold  and 
purple  in  the  joyous  light.  And  as  the  people  came  out 
of  their  houses,  now  that  the  time  was  drawing  near,  lo ! 
the  light  was  on  their  faces  too ;  and  the  plain  New  Eng- 
land men  and  women,  in  their  prints  and  jeans,  shone  like 
the  figures  in  a  Venetian  picture,  and  were  all  a-glitter  with 
gold  and  precious  stones  for  once  in  their  lives,  though  they 
knew  it  not. 

But  not  all  of  this  light  came  from  the  setting  sun ;  on 
every  face  was  the  glow  of  a  great  joy,  and  every  voice  was 
soft  with  happiness,  and  the  laughter  was  all  a-tremble  with 
the  tears  that  were  so  near  it.  They  were  talking  about 
the  child  who  was  coming  back  to  them,  whom  they  had 
mourned  as  lost.  They  were  telling  of  her  gracious  words 
and  ways,  so  different  from  anything  else  they  had  known, 
—  her  smiles,  and  the  way  she  held  her  head  when  she 
sang ;  and  the  way  she  found  things  out,  without  ever  any 
one  telling  her.  Wonderful,  was  it  not  ?  Why,  one  dared 
not  have  ugly  thoughts  in  her  presence ;  or  if  they  came, 
one  tried  to  hide  them  away,  deep  down,  so  that  Melody 
should  not  see  them  with  her  blind  eyes.  Do  you  remember 
how  Joel  Pottle  took  too  much  one  day  (nobody  knows  to 
this  day  where  he  got  it,  and  his  folks  all  temperance 
people),  and  how  he  stood  out  in  the  road  and  swore  at  the 
folks  coming  out  of  meeting,  and  how  Melody  came  along 
and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  away  down  by  the 
brook,  and  never  left-  him  till  he  was  a  sober  man  again  ? 
And  every  one  knew  Joel  had  never  touched  a  drop  of 
liquor  from  that  day  on. 


LIGHT.  87 

Again,  could  they  ever  forget  how  she  saved  the  baby,  — 
Jane  Pegrum's  baby,  —  that  had  been  forgotten  by  its 
frantic  mother  in  the  burning  house  ?  They  shuddered 
as  they  recalled  the  scene :  the  writhing,  hissing  flames, 
the  charred  rafters  threatening  every  moment  to  fall ;  and 
the  blind  child  walking  calmly  along  the  one  safe  beam, 
unmoved  above  the  pit  of  fire  which  none  of  them  could 
bear  to  look  on,  catching  the  baby  from  its  cradle  ("  and  it 
all  of  a  smoulder,  just  ready  to  burst  out  in  another  minute  ") 
and  bringing  it  safe  to  the  woman  who  lay  fainting  on  the 
grass  below !  Vesta  had  never  forgiven  them  for  that,  for 
letting  the  child  go :  she  was  away  at  the  time,  and  when 
she  came  back  and  found  Melody's  eyebrows  all  singed 
off,  it  did  seem  as  though  the  village  would  n't  hold  her, 
didn't  it  ?  And  Doctor  was  just  as  bad.  But,  there !  they 
could  n't  have  held  her  back,  once  she  knew  the  child  was 
there ;  and  Rejoice  was  purely  thankful.  Melody  seemed 
to  favor  Rejoice,  almost  as  if  she  might  be  her  own  child. 
Vesta  had  more  of  this  world  in  her,  sure  enough. 

Is  n't  it  about  time  for  them  to  be  coming  ?  Doctor 
won't  waste  time  on  the  road,  you  may  be  sure.  Dreadful 
crusty  he  was  this  morning,  if  any  one  tried  to  speak  to 
him.  Miss  Meechin  came  along  just  as  he  was  harnessing 
up,  and  asked  if  he  could  n't  give  her  something  to  ease  up 
her  sciatica  a  little  mite,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  ? 
"Take  it  to  the  Guinea  Coast  and  drown  it!"  Not  another 
word  could  she  get  out  of  him.  Now,  that's  no  way  to 
talk  to  a  patient.  But  Doctor  has  n't  been  himself  since 
Melody  was  stole ;  anybody  could  see  that  with  his  mouth. 
Look  at  how  he  's  treated  that  man  with  the  operation,  that 
kept  him  from  going  to  find  the  child  himself !  He  never 
said  a  word  to  him,  they  say,  and  tended  him  as  careful  as 


88  MELODY. 

a  woman,  every  day  since  he  got  hurt ;  but  just  as  soon  as 
he  got  through  with  him,  he  'd  go  out  in  the  yard,  they 
say,  and  swear  at  the  pump,  till  it  would  turn  your  blood 
cold  to  hear  him.  It 's  gospel  truth,  for  I  had  it  from  the 
nurse,  and  she  said  it  chilled  her  marrow.  Yes,  a  violent 
mail,  Doctor  always  was ;  and,  too,  he  was  dreadful  put  out 
at  the  way  the  man  got  hurt,  —  reaching  out  of  his  buggy 
to  slat  his  neighbor's  cow,  just  because  he  had  a  spite 
agahist  him.  Seemed  trifling,  some  thought,  but  he 's 
like  to  pay  for  it.  Did  you  hear  the  sound  of  wheels  ? 
•  Look  at  Aiwt  and  Alfred,  over  there  with  the  baby; 
bound  to  have  the  first  sight  of  them,  are  n't  they,  standing 
on  •<?  wall  like  that  ?  They  are  as  happy  as  two  birds, 
ever  since  they  made  up  that  time.  Yes,  Melody's  doing 
too,  that  was.  She  did  n't  know  it;  but  she  does  n't  know 
the  tenth  of  what  she  does.  Just  the  sight  of  her  coming 
along  the  road  —  hark !  surely  I  heard  the  click  of  the 
doctor's  mare.  Does  seem  hard  to  wait,  does  ri't  it  ?  But 
Rejoice,  —  what  do  you  suppose  it  is  for  Rejoice  ?  only 
she  's  used  to  it,  as  you  may  say. 

Yes,  Rejoice  is  used  to  waiting,  surely ;  what  else  is  her 
life  ?  In  the  little  white  cottage  now,  Mandy  Loomis,  in  a 
fever  of  excitement,  is  running  from  door  to  window,  flap- 
ping out  flies  with  her  apron,  opening  the  oven  door,  fidget- 
ing here  and  there  like  a  distracted  creature ;  but  in  the 
quiet  room,  where  Rejoice  lies  with  folded  hands,  all  is 
peace,  brooding  peace  and  calm  and  blessedness.  The  sick 
woman  does  not  even  turn  her  head  on  the  pillow;  you 
would  think  she  slept,  if  she  did  not  now  and  again  raise 
the  soft  brown  eyes, — the  most  patient  eyes  in  the  world, 
—  and  turn  them  toward  the  window.  Yes,  Rejoice  is 
used  to  waiting;  yet  it  is  she  who  first  catches  the  far- 


LIGHT.  89 

off  sound  of  wheels,  the  faint  click  of  the  brown  mare's 
hoofs.  With  her  bodily  ears  she  hears  it,  though  so  still 
is  she  one  might  think  the  poor  withered  body  deserted, 
and  the  joyous  soul  away  on  the  road,  hovering  round  the 
returning  travellers  as  they  make  their  triumphal  entry. 

For  all  can  see  them  now.  First  the  brown  mare's  head, 
with  sharp  ears  pricked,  coming  round  the  bend;  then  a 
gleam  of  white,  a  vision  of  waving  hair,  a  light  form  bend- 
ing forward.  Melody!  Melody  has  come  back  to  us!  They 
shout  and  laugh  and  cry,  these  quiet  people.  Alfred  and 
Alice  his  wife  have  run  forward,  and  a.  <  dressing  the 
brown  mare  with  tears  of  joy,  holding  the  baby  up  for 
Melody  to  feel  and  kiss,  because  it  has  grown  so  wo"tL.t-' 
fully  in  this  week  of  her  absence.  Mrs.  Penny  is  weeping 
down  behind  the  hedge ;  Mandy  Loornis  is  hurling  herself 
out  of  the  window  as  if  bent  on  suicide ;  Dr.  Brown  pishes 
and  pshaws,  and  blows  his  nose,  and  says  they  are  a  pack 
of  ridiculous  noodles,  and  he  must  give  them  a  dose  of  salts 
all  round  to-morrow,  as  sure  as  his  name  is  John  Brown. 
On  the  seat  behind  him  sits  Melody,  with  Miss  Vesta  and 
the  old  fiddler  on  either  side,  holding  a  hand  of  each.  She 
has  hardly  dared  yet  to  loose  her  hold  on  these  faithful 
hands ;  all  the  way  from  the  city  she  has  held  them,  with 
almost  convulsive  pressure.  Very  high  De  Vrthenay  holds 
his  head,  be  sure !  No  marquis  of  all  tht  line  ever  was 
prouder  than  he  is  this  day.  He  ki?ses  che  child's  little 
hand  when  he  hears  the  people  shouc.  and  then  shakes  his 
snowy  curl,  and  looks  about  him  like  a  king.  Vesta  Dale 
has  lost  something  of  her  stately  carriage.  Her  face  is 
softer  than  people  remember  it,  and  one  sees  for  the  first 
time  a  resemblance  to  her  sister.  And  Dr.  Brown —  oh,  he 
fumes  and  storms  at  the  people,  and  calls  them  a  pack  of 


90  MELODY. 

noodles ;  but  for  all  that,  he  cannot  drive  ten  paces  without 
turning  round  to  make  sure  that  it  is  all  true,  —  that  here 
is  Melody  on  the  back  seat,  come  home  again,  'home,  never 
to  leave  them  again. 

But,  hush,  hush,  dear  children,  running  beside  the  wagon 
with  cries  of  joy  and  happy  laughter !  Quiet,  all  voices  of 
welcome,  ringing  out  from  every  throat,  making  the  little 
street  echo  from  end  to  end !  Quiet  all,  for  Melody  is  sing- 
ing! Standing  up,  held  fast  by  those  faithful  hands  on 
either  side,  the  child  lifts  her  face  to  heaven,  lifts  her  heart 
to  God,  lifts  up  her  voice  in  the  evening  hymn,  — 

"  Jubilate,  jubilate ! 
Jubilate,  amen ! " 

The  people  stand  with  bowed  heads,  with  hands  folded  as 
if  in  prayer.  What  is  prayer,  if  this  be  not  it  ?  The 
evening  light  streams  down,  warm,  airy  gold ;  the  clouds 
press  near  in  pomp  of  crimson  and  purple.  The  sick 
woman  holds  her  peace,  and  sees  the  angels  of  God  as- 
cending and  descending,  ministering  to  her.  Put  off  thy 
shoes  from  thy  feet,  for  the  place  whereon  thou  standest 
is  holy  ground. 

"  Jubilate,  jubilate ! 
Jubilate,  amen ! " 


THE  END. 


A     000128964     4 


